


the fall

by kinpika



Series: BLUE [1]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Can be a little dark, Changing POV, Changing time, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, Imagery, Logans fine tho i promise, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Ratings, Rating bumped up due to new fics added, Spoilers, mentions of guns, spans several years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2020-04-08 00:46:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 134
Words: 46,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19096309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: A collection of FHR fics that vary in pairing, rating and length. Random updates.





	1. who am i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

There’s a fine line between the snap and the pull.

Gravitational to the Puppet. _The pull_. Or, wait, was that the snap? The absolute? (hang on, give her a moment, I’ll get it right)

No, it was definitely how it was so easy to snap into place, fill the shoes and the fingers and stand in front of the mirror. Snap. Pull. Easy friction and tousled hair, long skirts, open blouses.

Sidestep liked the blouses. Not Puppets.

Sidestep liked blue skies and dark corners and heavy lipstick left on white collars. Or did she? Did she even do that? Didn’t the Puppet? Or did they both?

Maybe it was neither of them, and she was remembering another memory altogether. Another person, who didn’t even exist.

Logan lay in limbo, between the pull. The snap. Where everything started to fold and combine, where there wasn’t the separate line anymore. A very fine line, she tells herself, so easy to forget, ignore. Dusted over with too much practice, who was to say that there were separations in the first place?

(who was _Logan_ , anyway?)

Was it Logan, or Puppet? Puppet, Puppet, _Evan_. Named for a long lost daughter, an overly compassionate nurse perhaps just a fraction too remorseful. Like a nickname, that only the best of friends used. And scribbled in the corner of the card, Jane Doe. Only ever Jane Doe.

Maybe it should’ve been Jane, left behind, forgotten. No, no Evan worked. Felt right. Wasn’t Logan after all, not socks with holes in them, dirty boots, choppy hair. Sleek skirts, nice heels, big earrings. Blouses.

_It was Logan who liked blouses!_

Hands go to grab the face, but whose was it anyway? Blink, Logan stares back, dark eyes, thin mouth. Frown and it’s Evan, wide eyes, flat nose. Once more, and it’s both.

Who am I? A voiceless question, lost to the thoughts, the head. The soul? Did someone like her even have a soul? Someone who thinks with a hundred minds, but beats two hearts. Two hearts that might not even be her own, after all. They belong to others, others far warmer than the distance between.

The face in the mirror hardens, and it’s neither Logan, nor Evan. Faceless, reflected back. Anima, my name is Anima. Nothing more, nothing less.


	2. the spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov.

Ortega doesn’t like how it gets him, every time. Where there’s a whirl, a kick, and for a long second, he’s facing Logan. Evan. This is Evan.

This was Evan, with hair that brushed her shoulders and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and a lighter laugh. Logan was tired, big dark circles and hair pulled off her face. Looking like she could always use a good forty-eight hours in the sun to recharge.

But that wasn’t the point. Didn’t help that Evan was the spitting image, almost like the universe was playing some cruel joke, with those dark eyes and red hair. Sure, she was taller, so her centre of balance was higher than Logan’s. Kicks always coming those few centimetres further up.

They just _looked_ the same. A snarl, when Ortega manages to block, parry. She ducks down, to the side. A side step. Solid fist coming for his lower ribs, and he dances out of reach. One, two, Sidestep.

No reason for that phrase, that name, to keep playing over in his mind. Evan had pink cheeks and eye liner and perhaps he was trying to focus on the superficial, skin deep, to keep the differences at bay.

Especially when there’s that move. The too convenient knee, pulling up and not going for him. Going for a hook around his leg. It might not have made him question anything, months ago, but sometimes he hears the words out of Evan’s mouth, and can’t help thinking _Logan_. Can’t help watching the way her lips purse over something unpleasant, or how she snorts when she laughs, or that those eyes. _Those eyes_. Always staring just a fraction too deep.

Ortega meets the floor, but he wasn’t sure if it was on purpose or not. Evan looks mildly amused, but he can see that fleeting look behind her eyes. The questions that hang there, holding on to the corners. Logan used to make that face. But Ortega takes Evan’s hand, letting himself be heaved to his feet.

(there’s no spark)


	3. faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

Evan is warm. Comforting. No scars, slim fingers, clear conscience. Logan, _Anima_ , likes this body, because she could almost feel like home. There’s no broken bones, or aches or pains, or even just the burden. A weight that would normally sit at the corner of her eye, as the thoughts trickle in.

And Evan has some uses. Of course she does. It’s why she was picked, right? Right. Easy to overlook and yet easy to remember. Make an impact. Her smile is brighter and her hair is shinier, and she’s light.

But it’s not enough, even Evan can hear it. Head blind, electrical currents, everything else standing in the way, and yet it’s right there on Ortega’s face. His kiss is gentle, scared. Crossing some imaginary line that Evan would never know (that Logan would never know). As if he wasn’t sure.

Anima knows that Evan is solid and grounding and Ortega looks at her in a way he never looked at Logan. _But it’s not enough_. Like the eyes skim, finding a corner over her shoulder when it becomes too much. Where his mouth doesn’t pull away, but don’t push back.

Ortega is honest and good, and he wants some fantasy. Maybe, Evan doesn’t know (Anima, Anima doesn’t know). Wants the past and even though his fingers dig into her shoulders as he holds her, and as he sighs her name against her ear, Evan doesn’t hear _her_. It’s not her.

Should she feel happy that it’s Logan? That Ortega whispers ‘Evan’, but the words hang, turn, change shape in the air.

Evan is soft edges and lips and skin, but Ortega wants the rough. The brittle. The one who twisted and turned and doesn’t exist. Anima doesn’t exist. Logan doesn’t exist. Why can’t he see that when he sees _Evan_?


	4. (what do you want from me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov.

Herald follows the rings of smoke down, like they’re something of a homing signal. Funny to consider, when he finds her at the end of them. Kicking her legs off the edge of the building, humming a song he can’t place. Logan looks far too comfortable there, sun bouncing off the red of her hair as she continued on, even though Herald knew he’d been spotted.

Or was it better to say heard? Coming to a halt in front, Herald hovers, arms folded, trying his best not to smile. For her part, Logan leans back on one hand, the other raised to shield her eyes.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Her tone gives nothing away, but Herald finds himself used to picking at the pieces. Maybe if the hero work didn’t go so well, he could always get a job at playing translator for Ortega. (And that thought _actually_ gets a barely there smile out of her)

“Last I remember, you weren’t a fan of heights?” Herald rounds off in a question, remembering very innocently that only last week she had practically squawked as a flock of birds had caught him in his blind spot.

Oh, the smile was gone now. Purse of lips, not quite the mask, but a sliver of it slipping over. Logan needed to work on the twitch in her cheek, to hide her amusement, if she was going to get anywhere. At least when he’d first met her, grumpy and unreadable, Herald could understand why people gave her such a wide berth.

Now he just wanted to point. See, this is what he was talking about! That underneath all the layers and frowns, Logan was warm and funny. A little more amused at herself than anything else.

“You need to stop broadcasting,” she finally says, a sigh leading on the third note. Absolutely a diversion from having to remember being bombarded by birds, but he took it.

Something else they had been working on was mental walls, which Herald could confidently say wasn’t taking. So strange, to just close himself up, hide things behind concrete. There had already been more than enough of that back east, but Logan watches him carefully rebuild, trying to hide. Trying not to broadcast.

“You suck.”

Can’t help if he thinks of her. That it doesn’t work when he remembers lips and skin and a laugh. And especially not when she stubs out her cigarette, finally bored of it, arms folded over her chest and trying to look every bit disinterested. Herald lets her know that he finds her to be an absolutely awful actress, kissing her easily, like he had no choice _but_ to do it.

Logan _pretends_ not to respond, bunching up her face until she finally gives in. Laughs about it, because maybe there’s not enough oxygen up here for her, but Herald feels the arms wrap around his neck, finally pulling him onto solid ground. Palms barely catch the ground, as kisses turn lazy, slow. Soft.

Sure, she was all hard angles underneath, solid and strong, but Herald always thought Logan was softer than that. Especially when she didn’t like that thought, giving him a very dirty look. “Stop that.” A soft groan, lost in his collar, as he doesn’t stop.

“You’re so _gross_.”

Herald laughs, rolling to her side, grinning when she covers her face. Curses him, but of course she does. There’s no weight to the words, and Herald just focuses on laying back, enjoying the remains of the sun, until she unfurls herself. On her side, looking at him. Studying. Whatever it was she wanted to see, she wasn’t finding it, not really.

Rolling to mimic her, on his side, Herald notes they barely touch. Maybe the brush of knees, the edges of their hands, the tips of their noses. “Hey,” he says, quietly, just the two of them.

After a short pause, Logan smiles. It’s small, but she dimples right in her cheeks, and it shows the dip of her lip from one too many scars, and it’s just so _her_. How was he supposed to find anyone else, after this?

“Hey, Danny.” Whispers his name like a secret, just the two of them. Herald couldn’t stop how he felt such a rush, a warmth, knowing that they’d shared secrets, had their own. Just the two of them, no one else.


	5. liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov.

Her eyes always drop. Fingers follow. Not anywhere _untoward_ , but Herald can’t help the way he stiffens, just a little, when there’s pressure on his knee.

It’s not uncomfortable by any means, but it always catches him off guard. How she gravitates towards the injury. Honestly, he’d rather not think about it — not think about the way he could see his face staring back, and the blood, the way their foot rose.

Herald closes his eyes, letting her fingers massage the joint. Trying not to think about Anima, grounding him. Hurting him. How he’d been careless and foolish and jumped the gun. With his legs over Logan’s on the couch, locked into something more resembling a pretzel, _Daniel_ focuses on the comfort, the weight.

How he feels a little safer, a little better, with her by his side.


	6. truth be told

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

A four step dance.

The first move, the step back. The finger on the pulse, set the mood, set the tone. Under the wire fencing and through each gate. Like a blast ( _bang!_ ) and doors opened that hadn’t existed before. Was it a lonesome journey? They might ask.

It was rough, scarring and seeping into the night. A shellshocked face stares in your dreams — a poor security guard who had walked too close. Long and lonesome, the walk. Hard. Reaching for a light switched and finding empty walls.

Cold stone, colder metal. Shiny and brilliant and stained with red. Rust. Gone. Safe.

Second foot forward. Hiding in a place that was made for the undesirables was easy. Cash, upfront. Stolen from a businessman on his way to work. A quick one, two, and the wallet was stashed under layers that had not been on your body three hours before. Outrunning the devil was key.

Twirl, in a room that’s bigger than the tube, the box, the hall. Things litter the floor, a makeshift couch, single mattress, radio. The music that plays is unheard of, soft and light and perhaps a song of love. Beats red against the walls, pinks and oranges that are as unfamiliar as they are unwanted.

But it’s an easy dance to fake. Having to start somewhere gives an edge, builds a story. Hides the truth. Can’t argue with that logic when the cigarettes are cheap and the neighbours don’t knock.

Third is to the left. Always left, turning out. Cover yourself, they said, when the block wouldn’t take. Leaving yourself open will not be tolerated.

A strike to the heart was a want, not a need. And it missed, time and time again. Enough force behind a punch would stop, end, finish. Not the way that the ultimatum plays out. How the give away is always too keen, too quick.

You do not don the mask because you want to, but you need to. You thought you had been careful, calculated, in disturbing the humdrum of petty crime and violence on your block. Keeping it away meant less of a headache, and an easier cashflow through the street. People who smiled more didn’t notice the notes missing from their purses.

But you’re caught again. Trapped under headlights that weren’t supposed to be aimed at you. Taking advantage of the chaos isn’t always smart, but you’ve never said you were. You didn’t mean to drag that family out of the fire, and direct those people away. Didn’t mean to stop that guy from throwing that car. You never meant to stay and watch electricity fill the air.

And the last step, back to the right. Back where you started. Where there was the brim of hope and softness filling out your cheeks, your skin. For one whole moment, you’re you. You always are. There’s no threat in the dark corners of your room, no stray thought in the crowd.

Safety makes you weak. False sense of security. You thought you could get away, but you don’t. You never do. Maybe this was all them, letting you think, letting you feel, so they could write down on their little notebooks that you failed. Write her off, don’t think about her again.

A shame that you’re prime material, the cream of the crop. They never would let you go, would they?

The dance ends. The serial number on the side of the bed sting orange in the dark. **1064-N**. That’s all you are to them, anyway.


	7. like a summon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov.

It becomes harder to breathe.

Harder to think, feel, do. Walking has been a foreign concept for you, for too many years. But you’re grounded (dragging yourself across the concrete no _no_ don’t think about that). There’s nothing under your feet but tile and steel, no longer the air which you took for granted, it seems.

And they try to get you back into it. Slow and steady, Ortega being polite and kind and encouraging, but you can see it. They know you can see it. In the corner of their eye sits the same kind of fear.

A broken leg wouldn’t normally be so terrifying if it weren’t for how you received it.

You close your eyes, hands on bars, one foot in front of the other. Relearning to walk, the first time after flight, was the worst. You never thought that there would be something that could top that experience. Never thought you would be so _wrong_.

Pain grits your teeth, strains your back. Pain takes over your veins, but you keep on. Because Ortega talks and Chen watches, and Angie looks down her nose. Not at you, oh no, but at the video feeds.

Stop. Rewind. Play. Over and over and over, watching the boot come down (at least she learned to keep her comments to herself). Ortega gets their own handful of critiques, and Angie flicks her hair, watches herself be launched into a building. Your hands grip the bars harder, and you wish they would just take it to another room. Let you be, just for a minute.

You have to bite down on the fear, as different point of views always manage to catch the way the sun shines off _that_ helmet. It haunts you. You haven’t told the psychologist that.

Nothing but your face staring back at you. Blood and fear. You’ve faced off villains before, gruesome people who deserved what they got. Something about this one just took the wind out of your sails. Made you hollow, right in the middle. Almost like you never want to—

 _“Ortega, Logan Walsh to see you_.”

Session over. Blip goes the screens, blinds open. You let go of the bars, taking advantage of those few millimetres of space between your toes and the ground to feel. Ortega, for their part, is apologetic and quick to escape.

Angie is talking a mile a minute, not happy, hasn’t been for a long time. But you follow Ortega, because Sidestep returns, like a summon. You remember the videos, the forums. Always there in the nick of time, snap! quick! to action! It’s hard not to roll the hero and the woman together, even now, as you catch a look of the slumped shoulders and purposely slow walk.

You think there’s a convenience there, that Sidestep rose from the dead, when they needed her most. Ortega has never been happier, and you can say that from the bottom of your heart. A new skip in their step, as they lead Logan further in, going somewhere you can’t follow.

Convenient, and hopeful. The hand around your throat tightens, but you don’t know why. There’s space under your feet, and Sidestep has returned, but you massage your knee. You don’t know what to question, when you watch her disappear around a corner.

(pausing only, to give you a smile. too much to unpack, not enough time, as it’s _gone_ )


	8. i don't know who you are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov.

Something had to be said for your efforts. Through good times and bad. How you let her walk away, again and again, despite it all — only to waltz back in when it was convenient for her. You’d figure seven years would’ve been a good enough amount of time to get your head into gear, but Logan just seemed to prove otherwise.

So you watch, how the smoke curls up around her head; a deceptively smokey halo. She’s staring off into the distance again, coffee going colder faster than she could drink (even if it was sweetened just as much, if not more than she liked, like you remembered). Maybe you should’ve added that shot of Galliano like she joked, might’ve made her more talkative.

Truth be told, you don’t know how to interrupt her. Seven years ago, you knew the moves. The cues. Every little fake out was remembered, revised, countered. Logan went from just some other boosted kid on the block to. To. Well,

You frown.

Does she remember anything? Does she _care_ to remember? This Logan is hard, sharp edges, taking notes from Argent on how to keep people out. Vague and handwavey and smiling like she knew more than she was letting on. _That_ Logan, the one committed to memory, was bright. Bubbly. A smartass with a penchant for trouble.

Not the first time you think ‘what happened to you’, and you’re thankful that she can’t read your mind. Or at least, you assume she still can’t. Not alpha level. Still surface level thoughts.

So she won’t be able to see this coming. “Why did you come to the hospital?”

Logan takes a sip of coffee, grimaces because you were correct in assuming it was far too cold now, sets it down. Stubs out her cigarette. “I heard you got injured. Thought it was the right thing to do.”

Even now, it sounds rehearsed. You only got out of the bed a few days ago, and here she was, again. Maybe not holding your hand this time, but looking anywhere but your face. Yesterday, you had asked _very_ politely if she missed your moustache. She had simply replied that she was thankful there was finally some excuse to get rid of it.

But that was yesterday. Yesterday was a bit of laughing, a bit of reminiscing. Today wasn’t going to be like that. You feel like you’re pulling teeth, trying to find the reason. “Didn’t think you were that worried about me.”

“I actually was hoping to run into Steel on the way, but found you instead.”

Sure, her tone is light, but Logan is frowning. Even after seven years, you can still read parts of her. Body language had always been something she failed at, and you know she’s hiding something. “Can’t say I’m surprised. I always knew you had a crush on Steel.”

There, in the corner, is a slight hint of a smile. Flick of eyes, to see you. _Gone_. “Don’t be jealous.”

And you want to keep up the conversation. Keep whatever little smidgen of banter she’s committed to going. But your eyes fall to how her lips twist into a smirk. “Why did you kiss me?”

Logan blinks, in the way she always used to when she was planning three steps ahead. Fingers tap along the table as she thinks. Trying to work out an answer? Trying to work out how to avoid it? Maybe some things don’t change after all.

“It was just on the cheek. It’s what… friends do.”

You’re not a mindreader, but you know that look. How Logan carefully avoids your stare, looking at a spot over your shoulder. “Logan, I—”

“I have to go.” She stands, abruptly. Still not looking at you. At her hands, fiddling as if she needed another smoke. “Don’t read into it, seriously. I just thought it was the right thing to do.”

If only you were a fraction faster, mods still recovering. You might’ve grabbed her arm, pulled her back. You don’t want to settle for just her being back in the city, existing behind some wall that was carefully crafted. After all, you woke to her beside your bed, hand in yours, fiddling around on her phone. There’s only a few conclusions you can honestly come to, but friendship doesn’t feel like the right sort of word.

(and you don’t want to be that guy, but she’d hugged you, held you, lingered just a little too close. Her eyes had been warm, and her perfume lingered in the room for hours after she’d left)

Logan hesitates, fraction of a second half turn. You foolishly think you had gotten through, put a good enough hole in the wall and been able to look in. But the flat purse of lips returns, eyes cold, careful. Reinforced. “I’ll text you later. Sorry.”

She walks, faster than you remember. Hunched and sliding through the crowd like someone new. You watch until she was gone, hood up, the red hair finally disappearing. Almost like a ghost. But when you look down at the table, you see the half empty pack of cigarettes, the almost full coffee, and chair pulled out. No, not gone. Not completely.

But you’re not sure if you’re okay, with staying like this, not sure where to go next. Where Logan lingers in places you thought you’d cleaned out. Too many variables, too many sore spots left to step on. And then there’s Logan, not wanting to let herself be known.

You finish your coffee, tip generously, ease on up. Her smokes weigh in your pocket, and her perfume hangs around your head.


	9. truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> au. or at least, we'll see. no one knows with malin. sidestep pov.

“What’s your name?”

“Logan Walsh.”

There’s no hit, but the silence stings. As does the shock, numbing fingers. Locking up joints, and you grind your teeth down, trying to fight back. Until it stops, suddenly, and you’re aware of how on fire your nerves are.

“What is your _name_?”

You can’t see in the dark. Nothing in the room but yourself, the chair, and the glass panel in front. Darkened, so you can’t see through. Can’t feel through, as when you try to reach out, try to find another mind, you brush against clouds. Damp softness, that gently rebuffs you, so different from the straps on your arms.

Gritting your teeth, you finally answer. “One-zero-six-four-en.” _Logan_. That’s your name. Not the numbers and letters that make up a serial code, an identifier. Not what they tell you. Not what they call you.

“Mission report.” Different voice now, softer, but just as much weight behind.

“Infiltrate Rangers.”

“And?”

You sigh. “Collect intel, plant discord, test…”

Another zap. “That’s not what was asked.”

If this was any other day, you might’ve reached out. Tried to misdirect. But the ache in your joints, the pressure behind your eyes, it _hurts_. “Reduced Rangers influence. Didn’t expect to die.”

There’s no more electricity firing up your skin, but the heavy quiet tells you that you were wrong. Didn’t give the right answers. But how else were you supposed to tell them what happened? They knew, of course they did. Even with all the freedom they gave, there was still a rope. Long enough to hang you with.

Finally, you realise that they had switched the comms off. Until light floods the screen, illuminating those standing behind. Squinting, you try to make out the figures. Blurred. Typical. At least six bodies, moving. Talking.

Around your neck, the cord tightens. Collar? Metal band? Pulling you back against the chair. Out the corner of your eye, you can see the syringe come down. Feel the heavy, sticky feeling through the numbness. Back to sleep, you think, eyes sliding shut. You won’t be yourself when you wake up again.


	10. GET OUT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

Did they pull you out, because you got in too deep?

In the tank, you’re asleep. You know you are, because you see your body. Rebuilt and reformed, again. Another loss, another strike against your name. 1064-N. Test subject. Meatbag. Weak. Always too weak, always connecting, finding that spark. And then you’re ripped away, back to square one.

You lose yourself to thoughts, as you peer in. See the scars, the tears. How orange hums on your skin, like its own mind sings out to yours.

Who are you? you ask.

Silence is your answer (it always is).

Maybe this is you going crazy, finally. Maybe this is you, lifting a chair to hit the tank. Again, again, again. Slowly cracking away at the barrier between you and the world.

The face reflected in the glass slowly disappears. A terrified scientist, stuck with making sure you were back in shape for the next mission. Terrified before you grabbed a hold of their mind, of seeing you, of the work they had to do. Didn’t want to rebuild you, anyway. Might’ve wanted to contaminate the tank, write you off for good.

You almost let them. Until you roared to life.

As the last hit makes contact, the tank shatters. You leave their body, so quickly it’s a snap, and they lose themselves to the flood. There’s no eloquence in how you fall, over shards and fluid. How you yank the mask from your face, breathing. Vomiting.

Up, you yell. Up up _up!_ If alarms were going off, you don’t hear them. Drowned out in the voices that clamour for attention. Demand you to notice.

The first step is the worst. You don’t feel how the glass cuts into your feet, or how your skin burns in the air. But it’s one foot in front of the other, wiping away the tank from your eyes. Seeing full blown technicolour.

The scientist is frozen in place. Too afraid to hit the panic button. Wondering when help was going to arrive. Good. Be afraid. You lean over them, hand grabbing the front of their coat. Neither of you notice the fear that leaks through their pants, because the temperature is dropping, army on the way. Voices getting closer.

“Get me out of here.”


	11. there are no ghosts here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov.

You are haunted by ghosts.

Ghosts of red, with twisted smiles and jackets three sizes too big. They laugh, a joke unheard, but the noise lingers like it was behind a door. Locked away, but not forgotten. And they linger, of course they do. Always out the corner of your eye. Always just out of reach. Sometimes, you let yourself believe they’re real, because it’s better than the alternative.

Always more than one. Sitting on your couch. Drinking your beer. Smiling through you, but it never reaches the eyes (can you even remember her eyes?). Like they’re clamouring for your attention, trying to point you in the right direction. You tell yourself that for the first few months. Until it becomes habit, just to watch the way she stares out over the balcony, your shirt, smoke in hand.

_did that even happen?_

But you keep on. What other choice do you have, anyway? Days just bleed into each other. Rangers or not, you leave because of the punch. The recorder shoved into your face, questions piling on. Just _who_ was Sidestep? _Why_ was there no body? What _really_ happened at Heartbreak?

Questions that you asked long into the night, too. But there was no rhyme, no reason, to have that all aired out when you were laying an empty casket into the ground. So you leave. Goodbye. See you later.

Of course it didn’t last long. Ghosts get to you, blue ones. In familiar suits with familiar angles, like clockwork with how they go through the motions. How you see the briefest amount of skin, as the mask is pulled up. You never knew how much you appreciated those moments, where the costume and the mask, the pomp and parade, disappeared for one whole minute.

You never realised that the slightest slip of ankle could turn you into a nineteenth century man, but it was all you ever saw. And that had been enough.

So you’re stuck, with reds and blues, bleeding into a soft purple hue. Colours your vision, and you’re used to it. With the Rangers, going through all the motions once again. New members, fresh blood. Ready to be churned through the machine, until they come out unlike before.

You check your left, and it remains empty. Hollow.

It’s not until you take to the streets, feet leading you somewhere you hadn’t been before, that the ghosts play tricks. Red and blue, melding into one. Solid and purple and the _hair_. The eyes.

Your eyes hurt, after you rub at them so hard, as if it might just take it all away. Push the image out of your mind, of Sidestep, of Logan, casually on the street. Sitting at a diner, eating lunch and checking her phone.

And you want to run. That’s never been a feeling before. Not even _then_ , when it was the right thing to do. Running wasn’t in your nature, you knew that. Everyone knew that. Even after leaving, you still came back. Not in all the right ways, but you have the office and the responsibilities, and the ghosts.

There was nothing pulling you across the street. Fear grips at you (maybe you really _had_ gone crazy), claws at your gut. Like a cold snap, climbing up your spine and keeping you in place. Only leaving you to huddle in the crowds, watching. Waiting.

Logan, a name that comes to you so naturally. Perhaps it’s not fair to apply it to someone you probably mistook, but you push for something else and your mind says softly, _no_. Not today. Leaving you with the idea that Logan is eating across the street, mere metres away. Logan, Logan, **Logan**.

Weaving in between people, you don’t know what to do. Rationally, in a voice that sounded vaguely like your father, you’re told to leave. Go. Get away. That the ghosts were playing tricks, and you were falling prey — like always. Always so weak, Ricardo, always so afraid.

But you shut the voice down, take those steps past the window. Not that you’re noticed, because you’re the quiet. The safety net. Logan said that the comfort of the white noise kept all the monsters out. It takes you everything not to put your hand against the window, not to push through.

You’re not noticed. Which only gives you more time, more questions. The hows and whys clamour to fight over each other, until you get the _wait, look_. Pay attention!

The face is different. A blink and you’ll miss it comparison, where the ghosts made a mistake. You don’t think your memory slipped so terribly, as you have one photo you cling to, the closest thing to reminding you that Logan had been real. Yet this was wrong, out of place. Up this woman gets, to go.

Ghosts point, so you follow. Why else would you question them, now? Not when saturation hits, low light, apartment building on the corner. You don’t go inside, don’t want to risk it. Don’t know what you’re here for, anyway. The fight kicks in. Snap of your fingers, put it away. Something here, something wrong.

The pieces aren’t all in the one spot. Instinct tells you that it was no coincidence, even though the dream tells you it isn’t real. Imagining things, need some sleep. Need some time away, to hide, to think.

It doesn’t stop you from taking down the address. Tomorrow. You’ll return tomorrow. At that thought, hands in pockets, feet taking you away, you finally notice that the ghosts are watching you.

You no longer stare back.


	12. momentary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov.

Something to be said about what kind of situations you find yourself in.

Too many hands. Soft, despite the way scars warp the skin, metal remaining cool despite the rising temperature. There are whispers at your ear, teeth that nip along your jaw, open mouthed kisses trailing down your chest.

You don’t know what to focus on first. Nerve endings on fire and you turn your head to find Ortega. Who grins, like they always do. Teasing you, and you can hear the praise. Doing so well, _Danny_. Look so good. You’re taken in for a kiss, swept away in the way they nibble your lower lip, lost to how you’re tipped back, you’re sure of it (are you?)

Directed to look down, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Another smile, between your thighs. Wet kisses pressed along your skin, and you still don’t look, even when tongue slides up your cock. If you seize up, it’s not mentioned. Just one of your legs positioned over their shoulder, and hands join mouth.

Too much. Way too much. Turn into the pillow (there’s pillows now?), trying to pull away. Ortega’s hands travel, and _their_ mouth is far too talented, and your hands are sticky when you wake.

Shit.


	13. no one was supposed to win

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov.

You didn’t expect to win. To knock Anima back. There’s a rush, as your fist connects with the helmet. Cracking through, the weight of months worth of red string pulling you to this moment.

Herald had grounded them. Whatever training he’d been undertaking had paid off, clearly, with how he had thrown Anima into the concrete. Enough weight behind them that everything had caved in.

“Wait, **wait** —”

Voice mangled, gurgling under a modifier, and you punch again. Break through that mirror, so you stop seeing yourself. Wild eyes, not at all camera ready. You don’t let it get to you, how everything slowly cracks, until you don’t recognise your face anymore.

Argent stands by, teeth bared, down below. Anima was slippery, and more than once you had seen them take to the sewers to escape. Steel wasn’t here yet, but you’d sent the signal. You were ready.

But you can’t stop, until Herald grabs your arm. Pulls you back. Or tries to, as he’s always been too gentle, too careful. Something that he just never seemed to overcome. “Cameras,” he murmurs, and you can see the flashes out the corner of your eye.

You rock back, but don’t let go of the front of their suit. If they go down, you’re following them. It ends now.

Looking back down, you hear the gasp before you put it all together. Anima had turned their head to the side, in the few seconds you had let them go. You don’t know what they were thinking, until they had turned back. Staring up. Hard.

All you can see is one eye, in between all the broken panels. Left eye, dark. Murky. You recognise the depths, because you had only dreamt about the colour for seven years. There wasn’t any defeat, if anything a mild annoyance. Like _you_ had done the wrong thing, read the wrong lines.

But that doesn’t stop the way you say her name. “Logan?” Whisper, like you wish it weren’t real.


	14. the beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

“What are you staring at?”

Not that you were expecting much of a response, but Charge just grins. That’s all you knew him as, anyway. Sometimes, he even responded to Marge. Charginald. Argy. With a smile, that was genuine. Never the one played up for inevitable cameras and attention, that was always a little too stiff in the corners.

For good measure, you pelt his forehead with popcorn. Didn’t even know why you had them in the first place, really. Been careful not to expose too much skin, since you’d been caught out. But your stomach growls, and the popcorn had been wasted on a head you couldn’t read.

Fuck it. Looking away, you flip the lower half up of your mask up, just over your lips. Shove a handful in, with all the graciousness you could manage, and roll it back down. Flick of eyes to the side, and Charge was looking away.

All wistful and faraway. You suppose that’s what happened when you looked like you walked off the cover of smutty novels. Made you glad you weren't a hero, just a vigilante. Now _those_ stories were always fun. Very informative.

Standing, you stretch you legs. Throw another handful at Charge, just for good measure. “Come on. Your photoshoot isn’t until tomorrow.”

He frowns, in a way you can’t place. Not without the thoughts attached, to give clues as to what it all meant. Always something a little deeper, a little softer. Nerves you hadn’t met before had long since taken up residence in your gut, and you have to look somewhere else but him.

“Can’t keep them waiting, can we?” Eventually he follows suit. The cuff of your jacket is your best friend. Don’t think about it, you tell yourself. It doesn’t matter, anyway.


	15. is this your final moment?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

You don’t trust a man with an electric charge running through him for fine motor skills. Impulsivity is nature, even if the origin of those powers are man made.

So you run. You have to. It stinks of ozone and you can feel sparks running on the outside of your suit. There’s no hope for you here. Old scars twinge, remembering the last time. What should’ve been the only time.

Up and over, trying to get away. Watching as walls crack around you, lightning currents burying themselves into brick and mortar. Overhead, you know the ceiling was going to collapse, unable to carry itself anymore. Ironic, and you throw yourself out the nearest window, readying for the worst.

Not the only one to think so, as you catch yourself on the way down. Land on the street, feet ready to keep going. Have to keep moving, otherwise you’ll get _caught_. You should’ve studied how much seven years changed a man. How his powers had grown.

Hadn’t expected to see the ground practically shake, lifting into the air like this was another time. Another person. Snaps of air, and you can’t walk back. Just watch as pavement weighed nothing, trapping you. Forcing you to look back.

When it had been a joke, years ago, that you two should’ve matched, scars had never really been part of the equation. But his are electric lightning, and yours are from another life. That’s all.


	16. kintsugi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt on FHR discord. sidestep, herald, ortega pov in order.

You’re different parts of one whole. Delicate lines, melded together all over. Fingers run down, over collarbones and skin, feeling ridges that would never quite heal. And you can only think, only feel, what is there.

No appreciation for what it made you, how the orange bleeds in the low light of the sun. Everything gets a little fuzzy, a little clear, as your arms are crisscrossed with scar tissue and life.

 

You see how they’ve been put back together. Delicate hands, they must’ve been. Careful wondering, as your hands hold them carefully, gingerly. Not afraid they might break again, as the trails of light tell you otherwise, but that they might just slip through your fingers once more.

Onto the ground, a million little pieces of information and secrets, held so close. Too close. You close your eyes, see the fine lines behind your lids. Like magic.

 

When there is light, it comes from them. Inwards, you know it’s there, despite how hard they try to hide it. Like it breaks out, in between all the slips and cracks. A flash of a smile, and you see it once more. They might have been painted over, might have begun again, but the warmth is underneath.

And you trust it made them strong. Fractures heal with stronger bones. That’s what they told you. So you hold their face in your hands, thumbs tracing their cheeks, watching how their eyes are bright and their fractures hold.


	17. no avoiding inevitability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

You’re early. Not that you meant to be, but your feet took you to Joe’s long before you realised. And it was fine, really, as it gave you time to adjust to the dampeners and start racking up a tab. The little things that made your day.

There’s a wide berth being given towards you, anyway. Didn’t have to be a telepath to notice. With a face like yours, it made sense that people were keeping an eye on you. No one was quite willing to rock the boat, not yet. Biding their time.

So you and sit and slowly drink, counting down the minutes. Shouldn’t be too far along now. Mortum was nothing if not punctual at the best of times. Mind wandering at that thought, reconciliation and revelations, it’s a rabbit hole in there. New routes and burrows, turning over each other. You’d almost get lost for good,

Except for the break in conversation. The way Joe’s quiets, tension rising. Even the bartender pauses in refilling your glass, eyes over your shoulder. Dragged out of your head, you look where they’re staring. Watch in the reflection of the mirror behind the bar.

“You’re not welcome here.”

“Never thought I’d find people willing to turn down cash.”

There’s a smarmy smile with that voice, you know there is. And you have to sigh. There would only be a few people with the gall to walk into a place like this, and quite literally risk their skin. On one hand, you could name them all. Probably even ID them by blood type.

Ortega was right at the top of that list. Your fingers itch, the need to smoke burning, and you know it’s only because he wandered in. Nervous? No, you weren’t. You’re sure it's not nerves. Settle for tapping your fingers alongside your drink.

You don’t react as he slides into the seat beside you. Barely raising your brows at the “I’ll have what she’s having”, like he’s slick, walking off the set of some tv movie. And you’ve seen the quality of those, they’re not great.

Don’t look. Don’t even think. Watch your glass be filled, then his. Rarely do you wait for your opponent to make the first move, preferring to close the distance. One, two, KO. But this was new territory, and you were willing to give up some of it, if it meant you could get your feet underneath you.

(since when did being near Ortega turn into a battlefield?)

“Come here often?”

Slow blink. Sigh. And you ignore the comment, fingers brushing. Smoke, you needed a smoke. Too bad it wasn’t polite. Never mind the sign with a big cross, no, not allowed. Not even for the biggest bad to walk in the door.

Ortega doesn’t say anything, but that doesn’t mean he concedes. Drinks, and you can see the way he grimaces out the corner of your eye. Slightly, like even he hadn’t expected to. Like a web, pulled up, what a strange reaction. Until you remember, that’s right, medication can do that to you.

Another look at the clock on the wall. Three minutes until Mortum would arrive.

“What do you want, Ricardo?”

“We’re on a first name basis now?”

“Not if you say that again.”

He laughs, and you’re incredibly aware of how people still stare. After all, former Marshal walking into a bar of all kinds of villainous scum that the Rangers have had to deal with in some capacity over the years wasn’t a good look. Was he going rogue? That does get you to react, raise your brows.

You hadn’t thought you’d said much. Hadn’t really given anything away in the grand scheme of things. What in the world was he thinking?

Except you gave up too much. Stared too long. Ortega grins, cat that ate the canary, knowing that you walked right in. Dammit. “In the neighbourhood, thought I’d try something new.”

“The threat of death or otherwise that enticing, huh?”

“You know me. Always a _glutton_ for punishment.”

“That’s one word for it.” Had to keep your hands busy, so you drink. Pass the glass between your fingers, watching as the condensation was not at all deterred by your actions.

Didn’t know where to go now. Thirty seconds. Watching the back door, and it’s dangerous to turn your back to Ortega like this. Might get handsy. Might try to be comforting. New angle, to get you to open up. You try to recall his little mind map in the office, wondering what Joe’s had to do with all of it.

But you’re drawing blanks, and Mortum sees you before you them. With a slight shake of your head, you turn back to Ortega. “Are you done?”

“Done with what?” Amusement in his eyes, but it’s frayed. Did the reality of the situation kick in, or has the obsession finally started to wear him down? You find you don’t know if you care, too much or too little.

With a turn, you step off the stool. Glass in hand, noting where Mortum had tucked into a booth. “Look, Ortega, as much as I would love to relive the ‘old days’,” you punctuate those words, so maybe he’d understand. Just this once, please. “I have business.”

Ortega’s not dumb, and you’ve lived too long believing the vapid act. You know exactly where he’s staring, with how his mouth forms a hard line. Not dumb, but a terrible actor when it mattered most. “That’s—”

“Personal.” Final. Enough. _Please_. Just go, that’s all you were asking.

You don’t give him time to ask anything else. After all, you know the cogs in his mind were whirring, piecing it altogether. Did you just hand him another little bit? Give away too much? You don’t know where you are in the game anymore. Perhaps it wasn’t smart, letting him go first for once.

Sliding into the booth, opposite Mortum, you watch Ortega leave his drink. One sip. But he’s watching you, the entire way out. There’s no avoiding this now. It’s not until you hear the door open then close, and all the air return to the room, do you turn to Mortum.

“I think we need to bring the date forward.”


	18. there was never any escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. suicide/death mentions

There’s no way to do this right. You know that. Even as you stare down, hands on your hips.

This was probably something you should never tell a therapist. Wonder how quickly you would be locked up for even considering it. But there was no use, not anymore. Too much had been revealed, the inevitability of keeping yourself so tied up in your old life.

Now, Evan was no longer a part of it. Played the part well, you had. Maybe even opened up something that you’d locked away, denied. So you needed to remove the limb. Couldn’t maintain her anymore, that’s what you told yourself. Logan was taking up all your time.

You watch her chest rise and fall. She had no idea, did she? How would she. It was you, after all. Could you die again? By your own hand this time. No outside thoughts encouraging you to let go. Fall.

Taking a pillow, you think of how you can’t do it yourself. Can’t go in, take pills. A knife. A gun. Like you can’t leave Logan, to even consider it. Incredible what trauma did to a person. Those are the kind of notes you should take to that doctor.

Knees either side of Evan’s chest, you lower the pillow. Shouldn’t take long, not much resistance. Not like the last time you did this, but that wasn’t even you. Not really. Don’t think about it. Pressing down, and you can hear the telltale hitches. Deep breathes, Evan. You can do it.

Except,

Except.

There’s no end. And you frown, had you not done it right? Hadn’t thought there were many other ways. You don’t see the way the hand raises until it's too late. How it latches onto your wrist, dragging you away with more force than it should’ve.

Evan was dead. You knew that. Surely you did. But you can only watch as your hand was turned away, easily like a doll. You were nothing. There’s no noise, no sound. Just the rush, the fall, as you’re pushed back.

Deep breathes, Evan. Slow as she pulls the pillow away. Careful, so tender. Like such a thing was unfamiliar. She’d seen the pillows, she knew what they—

 **It hurts.** A cut across your mind, deep, claws. Digging in, finding red. Why were you remembering red? Like a bleed you can’t stop. They say head wounds were the worst, but this was internal. Nothing to cover this up. You just clutch your head, and pray.

If only because Evan looked like you. Wept red, with the way her hair fell in her eyes. It was all a dream, surely? _You’re sorry, so sorry, you didn’t mean to do it this way._

She moves, and there’s cracks in her joints, the unfamiliar movements. It hurts, oh, why? Why did it hurt so much? You can’t get away, not fast enough. Did you even move? There’s no telling. As the moment you look up, you’re lost in the sea. The burn.

Red, red eyes.

(you never did stop screaming)


	19. interrupted, girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

It should’ve been expected that they were on to you. Had you been anyone else, you might’ve heard them. Except you were Evan, and it was late as you slid your key into the door. The only giveaway, few seconds notice, was the heavy stamp of feet.

“Freeze!”

Your key drops as your hands shoot to the sky. Fuck. Fuck _fuck_ ** _fuck_.** What did you miss? What didn’t you see?

“Turn around.”

Slowly, carefully. Didn’t want to lose Evan. Hands still high, but you can see several guns pointed, only a few holding up. Others were nervous, you could see it on their face. Probably didn’t think this was a good idea, and they had no idea how right they were. Nothing but fury was biting at you, and if Evan hadn’t been so _calm_ , you probably would’ve been shot by now.

“Problem, officer?” Refer to the one in the hat. One too many badges for not doing much of anything. The least reasonable, you knew, but you needed to know they weren’t ready to shoot.

You needed to drop Evan and _run_.

“You’re under arrest, Ms Evan.”

There’s no other way to say it, but the rug was literally taken out from underneath you. Eyes wide, turning to see Charge, Ricardo Ortega, moving through. In his suit. Probably lit up, ready to go. **Fuck**.

“Ricardo?” you ask, softly, confused. Play the act, play the act. Come on, you can do it. Don’t let the anger out.

“Don’t try that. You’re under arrest for conspiracy against the government—”

“Are you _shitting_ me?!”

“—and consorting with a known enemy of the state.” Official. Far too official. You remember Ortega, who used to chafe under the terms and technicalities. But this was rehearsed, probably in front of a mirror.

“‘ _Consorting_ ’?! Ricardo, come on, it’s me—”

“Your turn, Chief.”

They practically launch themselves at you. To the point where you’re sure at least four different pairs of cuffs landed on your wrists. Shoving you away, and you can see the way neighbours peek out, watching the show. That Evan, you hear. Always was suspicious. Always out too late.

You needed to jump. _Now_. Before the stairs.

Turning to look over your shoulder, you watch how several muscle their way into your apartment. Bugged. Had to have been compromised. Run a list, of who would’ve outed you. No names stuck out, but the hand on your shoulder did.

Ortega doesn’t push, but he’s not gentle with how he guides. Top of the stairs now, only a few officers in front of you. A fully manned walk. Did they believe you that dangerous?

Good. Anger pulls at you. _Good_ , they better think you’re worth it. One last look at Ortega, before you rip yourself from Evan. Slam into Logan, rough and hard. No time to choke on air, because there’s shouts greeting you.

Even a call for an ambulance. How generous.

With a gulp, you flip the phone open, another open to text. No time to wait, as you had barely bought time for Evan. Yourself. Can’t let her get to the hospital, as they would surely match up records of Jane Doe, unresponsive to the world.

_“Logan, this isn’t a—”_

“Evan’s been arrested. I’m compromised.”

Silence, on the other line. The phone in your hand beeps, and Daniel is on his way.

_“Give me an hour. I can get to the hospital an intercept there.”_

There’s a bang from down the stairs, and you hope to high hell they haven’t shot her. “Make it twenty. And _hurry_.”


	20. murmur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

Sometimes, you catch yourself dreaming. A dangerous thing, when you let yourself lull. No wards, no precautions, just the fluffy clouds of thoughts, and a wistful smile.

You know you should be more careful, of course. Especially with how there are more smiles in the cafe, happier thoughts. Little bubbles overhead. A couple in the corner thinking of their cat. One man singing quietly to himself about his husband. Friends holding hands and laughing over brunch. You don’t pop them, as you continue to dream. If anything, they just grow.

Bigger, wider. Brighter. Sparkling so bright you are warm and solid and centred.

“Sorry I’m late.”

The fuzz of Ortega’s mind is a comfort. An encouraging hug of wool, cottoning around your own. That’s how you would describe it — knitted clothes, that make the heart grow a little fonder.


	21. life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov. defibrillatortega again

You know the method like it was old habit. A soft charge, between thumb and forefinger. The lightest spark you could create.

Was it worth it, on someone like her?

Gone were the four walls and the soldiers behind the door. No longer hiding, trying, praying. Finding machines to keep the life in you, practicing to make her heart beat. Hero and vigilante. What a pair you had made.

Perhaps natural order meant you were now the judge, jury, executioner. A final decision, one handed to you by the course of events that you got, but never understood. Should you have known? When you think about it, the signs were all there.

Now it was just you, and her, and the spark.

Chatter in your radio, too many voices clamouring for attention. Did you get them? Did you get Anima? No words leave you when you open your mouth. Yeah, yeah you did. Knocked them, with a current that could’ve killed a hundred men.

You’re staring at your hand. You did that. To Logan. To Anima. To whoever this woman was, in your arms, no heartbeat. Just a broken helmet and toasted suit and thick black blood. Orange glows between the cracks; you should’ve known.

Thumb and forefinger. Barely there light. You could end it, right here, right now. Bury her again. No one would ever know, just your little secret. Bring the helmet back, as a trophy, as an accomplishment. After all, it was easy to do it all over again. That’s what you tell yourself. This time, you don’t know who she is.

Spark. A smack to her chest, centre, hard and fast and _she sucks in air, too fast, too hard. Eyes wide open, a cry you don’t hear._


	22. death comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. tw for blood, guns, eye horror

With another kick, he flies through the doors. Hands scrubbing against the floor, trying to get away. _AWAY! GET AWAY!_ And you thrive off the power. The screams. Heavy footsteps stalking forward, one in front of the other. No long the hunted.

You’ve never felt this strong. So sure of what it was you were about to do. There had been a moment earlier of course, of waver, when you had been outside the perimeter, looking in. You could’ve left, run away. But the walls are streaked red, and your hands do not shake. Instead you’re here, reloading the gun in your hand.

Would you be sated? Perhaps not. Never, even, until this place burned.

“Stay— _stay back!_ ”

Behind your helmet, you smile. Manic, probably, with how you watch him hit the body behind. Crippling fear, as he turns slowly, and there’s an “Evan?” So quiet, voice tight with realisation, terror. It feels so good.

Eyes flick over for a moment. You will remember the way you had dropped in for days. Scalpel in hand. _Hello, doctor_. The man had barely any time to react. Assistants down, no time for screams, until it was just you, and him.

He had taken your eyes the first time you had met. So you had taken his.

“Wh—what did you _do_ to him?!”

“Just took back what was mine.”

That’s the kicker, to rip him away from Evan’s face. Empty holes where eyes should’ve been. Mouth wide open in a scream that died on his lips, and it might’ve even been your name. This memory will not pass, and you don’t care. You _want_ it to live on, to fester in his thoughts, bury deep into his gut. The line was still not crossed, and you take a step forward.

“Who are you?”

The million dollar question. Oh, you knew that they were on to you. Perhaps from the very beginning. But that information must’ve been a well kept secret, even one that he didn’t know. How strange, to be so far on the outside. As if it had never occurred to him, to be on the other side of the glass.

You will never get another moment like this. Seals on your helmet pop, coming off with one easy movement. Gun still raised, eyes barely moving from the way he squints, trying to make out what little of your face you give away.

Until you feel the air leave him. Punch to the gut, and he’s bleeding it all out. Clambering over Evan’s body now, until just the cupboards sat behind him. Like he could never get far enough away.

“No—no! You—It can’t be you!”

Raise your brow. Still not letting go of your helmet, or the gun. Solid in your hand. Nanovores quivering in your palm, please, let them _eat_. So hungry. So so hungry. Just let go, just this once. Even Mortum’s work can be overwritten if you just _gave in_.

But you don't want to speak. Don’t want to give him that pleasure. Not yet, but soon.

“You’re dead, you absolute fucki— _argh!_ ”

Cut him off with a bang, low in the hip. Watch as he gasps, nice and deep, clutching the bleed. Closer now, so much closer. Crouching down, Evan the only barrier between the two of you. With a nudge, Evan’s face turns towards him.

“Now, now, father, don’t use poor language.”

You watch the way Logan freezes. Says something between clenched teeth, that you know was simply an insult, but it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have much longer to live now, anyway. The bullets were laced, after all. Slow release once lodged into skin.

Logan spits out blood, with it landing between your boots. “So rude,” you sigh, and push yourself to stand once more.

“I’m not your _fucking_ father!”

Partially true. You know what image you were made in. What memories lingered in your mind. Simulation wouldn’t bring his daughter back, and had this been any other time, any other life, he might’ve been able to be turned against the Farm, the government. After all, they had weaponised what he loved against him, and you had grown from what remained.

“You’ll pay for this, you hear me! You fucking _psychopath_! Always knew I should’ve killed you when I had the chance! Would’ve done it myself, you raging—”

Bang! Bang bang! _Bang bang bang!_ Hollow click.

Damn, out of bullets. Tossing the empty gun aside, you not so gently kick Evan out of the way. Apparently you should let the dead rest. But that only ever applied to some, and these monsters deserved none of you grace. Quick flick of your hand, and the knife is solid and untarnished in the low light of the room.

Makes it look haunted, like out of those thriller movies. How appropriate, as you cut away the fabric of Logan’s shirt. Chest exposed, and you’re so careful in how you mark him. Strokes, deep enough to leave a message loud and clear. Quick, easy. As if you had practiced this before.

Another note, a paper trail for the Farm to follow. Wiping the blade clean on his pants, you affix it back against your hip, reseal your helmet and stand. Good. _Good_. Closer now, almost at the centre.

With your back turned, you find the camera in the corner, and you only stare. Grin. Barely in the reflection, you can see how your helmet lights up, deep red, screaming out one message out of the two you have to leave behind. (DIE DIE DIE DIE) Logan’s body contained the second.

**I**

**AM**

**ALIVE**


	23. the net holds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. potential endgame.

Beeps and murmurs. That’s what fills your ears. Digs in deep, buries at your core. Familiar noises, that roll in your gut, but you can’t quite place from where.

Until you can.

Guttural fear, one that is intrinsically primal and deserved, as you want to sit up. Want to move, want to breathe. All too much at once, as you can see nothing but the dark, but you’re hyper aware of bandages, needles, thread. You’re choking. This is it. They got you. You never stood a chance.

“Logan! Logan, breathe, it’s alright!”

Too many hands, but the name is warm. Plucked out of a story, and you blink furiously, trying to dispel fog. Holding you down, but your throat clears, and it’s perhaps the first real breath of air you’ve had since — you don’t know how long. Stale in the back of your throat, distinctly tasting like disinfectant. Death.

This was all a dream, right?

Faces hover around you. Worried and lined. You don’t know where you were, but you recognise hair, eyes, thoughts. Static. Voices pushing together, words overlapping. You know these people.

“She’ll be alright.”

“We thought we lost you.”

“Give her some space.”

Squeezes on your fingers. Your head lolls to the side, trying to see. Trying to understand.

“It’s okay, Logan. You’re alive. You made it.”

Huh, that was new. Something comes in through the drip, you know it does. Makes your mind soft and like cotton candy, encouraging you to go back to sleep. You don’t want to, not yet, but it’s warm. You’re safe. You made it.


	24. the truth is out there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

“Remove the helmet.”

You have no chance to win here, really. Layout flashing in front of your eyes, trying to work out an exit strategy. Commit it to memory.

“I don’t take kindly to being ignored.”

Seals pop along your neck with a hiss, and you have to close your eyes as you pull it off. Control, play this in your favour, even as there’s fear scrabbling at the back of your mind. Whether it originates from the Rat King, or you, you don’t know for sure. Breathe, Logan. Breathe.

Holding your helmet in your right hand, low, not to appear as a threat. Slowly, ever so slowly, raise your eyes.

You’ve seen this face countless times. Damn near recognisable, save for a few key differences. Smoothing your face into idle calm, you watch as your reflection smiles softly.

“Logan. Been a while.”

Hollow Ground is composed, just like how you are. Unflappable, save for a quirk in the corner of her mouth that you know happens with yours.

“It has been, Billie.”


	25. close shave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov.

You’re literally putting your life in her hands, you know. A test of sorts, trying to push the limit.

Limit of what you can’t say exactly, because you don’t want to believe the reality. But Logan nudges your head back against the chair, cream brushed against your face.

“Been a while since we did this.”

She’s right. “Last time would’ve been-“

“Before Psychopathor?”

“I was going to say Mansonite.”

“True.” No commitment to the word, but you can see her smile a little. Blade in hand.

Careful now. Her movements are controlled and quick, barely registering on your skin. A slide against your shoulder as she wipes the blade clean.

You didn’t expect her to agree, really. An idle comment about your growing facial hair spurned the thought. And you are thankful she can’t read your mind, as you know this is the only time she had been so close, touching you just. Tilting your head to the side.

All you can smell is lilacs and smoke. Closing your eyes, you let her work. Don’t flinch as the blade drags a little harder up and over your throat. Perhaps this meant she was still in there, still close.

As much as the sweep along your jaw.


	26. the thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. trying out different names.

When you come up the staircase, you can hear the distorted shout of ‘ _fuck_ ’ loud and clear. Almost funny, really, when you see how Janus’ paces now, back and forth. Another flurry of curses, and they’re kicking something loud that screeches, metal on metal, in your ears.

“No need to add that to your bill, Janus.”

They stop, neck whipping around so fast to spot you that you might’ve thought it broke in the process. You don’t need to be close to hear how they groan. The talk might not go further than that, but as you raise your hand, trying to dim some of the glare, you can read exactly what they’re thinking.

Two great exes sit across where their eyes would be. Flashing, a little, with how they move their head. Blank, and then question marks. But still, none of that snappy sass. You’re almost disappointed.

“Cat got your tongue?”

You watch as the mask rolls through several different symbols you can’t quite place, but some are likely supposed to be offensive. Settling back on exes. Perhaps Janus was glaring at you. Well, such a fantastic burglar as they were wasn’t quite known for monologuing, but it would’ve made things easier.

Like how you pull yourself into a stance now. Bites of electricity around your fists. Once good punch ought to short-circuit that helmet. You had been getting much, _much_ closer the last few clashes.

Whip to exclamations. Janus actually looked around, as if trying to find anything other than an empty rooftop to help. Incredible. Should you remind them they were the one who ran up here first?

Opening your mouth, ready to begin, you watch the slower changes. A grin. You’re sure of it. What would probably pass as a wink, and something vaguely animated passes over. Oh. Janus blew you a kiss. What—?

You’re not prepared for them to move towards you, but it doesn’t last. Not when they double back, and you have to throw yourself to try to catch them. Cape slipping through your fingers, and you watch as Janus disappears over the edge.

“No!”

Such an idiot. Scramble to stare over the ledge, and you can hear the crowd below scream. Cameras above from helicopters. You don’t want to encourage Janus to survive, maybe, you’re not sure, but you can’t help think _use the damn jets!_

Janus is two steps ahead. Quick flick of their wrist, and you watch something shoot up towards you. A hook, that lands perfectly between your hands. Swinging through the air, can only watch as they push themselves forward, flying back into the building, floors below you.

Gone.

 

In your office, once far from the critiques of _once again_ letting Janus run off, you switch the computer on. Low hum filling the room, and you idly doodle on a piece of paper nearby. Scratch it out when you realise it starts to look like that stupid, mocking mask.

Finally, when the computer loads, you barely have time to register programs open when something else loads. Cleanly cutting through whatever you wanted to do, like an envelope in pink.

Opening on your screen, you groan at what it is. Sink in your chair and push yourself away from your desk.

A tiny, dancing Janus sits in the middle, along with a perfectly signed letter of thanks.


	27. warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargeflystep. herald pov

You don’t know what time it is exactly, not that you care. Refuse to open your eyes to check the time, hoping that if you keep them closed long enough, you’ll just fall right back.

Slow breathing. Arms tightening around the body in your arms, and you are very almost there. Can feel how you’re slipping up, and not just because you can fly. Logan is warm against you, head tucked under your chin and legs tangled in yours. Warm, like your own personal space heater. Almost there.

Until she moves. You can almost feel her frown against your neck, and your grip goes slack as she turns around. Hand slapping the space next to her. You couldn’t even pretend to be asleep now.

Voice heavy with sleep, you hear her first mumble out a: “Ricardo?”, before there’s a pause.

Cracking open one eye, you look over her. Trying to find him. There’s a lump, at the other edge of the bed. And from how he was laying, you didn’t have to imagine that he was almost falling off. Especially with how close you were to turn and end up with the same fate.

As she pushes away from you, her eyes still closed, you prop your head up. Watch as she drags Ricardo back, manoeuvring all his limbs in place. Settled, a little more towards the centre of the bed. For his part, Ricardo didn’t even seem to wake up, but with a blink, you’re sure you can see the quirk of a smile.

Not that this seems to be the end. No longer teetering over the edge of sleep, you’re stuck with being awake. Which was fine, honestly, as it meant you could press in close, nose to nose with Logan, and feel how Ricardo’s fingers flex, finding your shirt. Twist into the material, keeping you right there.

“Stop moving.” A grumble, but you settle for pecking her lips.

“You moved first.”

“You did,” Ricardo chimes in, eyes open now.


	28. shine behind the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. post scarface

A solid hiss leaves you, as you clamp the rag to your face. Once a shirt you had planned on changing into, but that was far too easy. Trying to expect every little outcome meant you didn’t notice this one.

It was solid silver, cutting through your armour like a knife through butter. Truly, you were nothing as Argent had made a lunge for you in the water.

And it was not the cold that you had read on forums that had greeted you. She _burned_ fury, enough that you tried to get away. Cut your losses and run. Herald and Ortega had been crumpled, hopeless and beaten, but Argent was something else.

You pull the rag away, vision blurring. In your hand, you were still clenching a few hairs. Taken in the heat of the moment. Carved into your glove, a cut almost as deep as the one on your cheek.

In the mirror, you blink. Try to keep the tears at bay. It _hurts_ , a familiar strain that reeks of ten years prior and fear. Your left eye may never be the same. That was something you couldn’t hide. Not when you were sure it shined, just a little, something swimming by.


	29. keep the feelings low

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I just — I’m breathless, okay? Whenever I’m with you, it happens." chargestep. sidestep pov.

“You going alright there, old man?”

Easy to sing out, when you’re up the stairs. Half a flight ahead, but still going strong. Two steps at a time, and your chest ached, throat dry and sore. For more than a block, you had both been running up and down varying buildings and sites. Hopefully, this would be the last one.

If only because you sure as hell weren’t admitting that the burn in your calves might actually lay you out for a week.

Pinch the bottom of your mask up to breathe, when you're on the next landing. Try not to look like you’re very obviously leaning on the handrail, free hand on hip.

“Fancy meeting you here,” you greet, grin broad when Ortega collapses, hands on knees. “You good?”

Perhaps you were bordering on concerned, when a single finger was held up. Still not looking up, deep heaves. But you were to shush, no more teasing. That doesn’t stop the twist of your lips at all.

“I am just — I’m just a little…”

You offer a: “Breathless?” unable to keep the smarm out of your voice. You didn’t have to see his face to know that he would’ve been momentarily pinched.

With a wave of his hand, Ortega looks up. A somewhat cheeky smile, you had to admit, that made you suddenly fear the next words out of his mouth.

“It’s just… whenever I’m with you, it’s been known to happen.”

The pause stretches, until you can only flatly ask, “what?”

“You take my breath away.” And Ortega pushes himself up, grinning, hands on hips. Distracting in how his chest continues to rise and fall, but the recovery was tremendous.

Your cheeks burn, and what comes out of your mouth was not an intelligent sound. If anything, it forces you to pull your mask down, to hide the way the flush rises up your neck. “Sh—shut up!” Turn. Up the stairs.

“Smooth,” Ortega calls after you, but he’s laughing too hard. You’re glad he can’t hear your heart beat, when you know it shouldn’t.


	30. you'll never be grounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “All my choices lead me to you.” flystep. herald pov.

In books, they call it the red string of fate. When you were younger, buried in libraries and behind tall gates, it was all you had. Books, lives that you couldn’t live. But those had been buried, under heroes and shows and a coffin you never saw.

So you had followed the trail. Was it pulling you along? One foot in front of the other, trailing the way from one side of the country to the other. You left behind your name, your money. Easy enough to pick up everything else.

And there is power, in being someone else. To flip through the masks, the motions. You’d been doing it all your life, anyway. Except back home it had been called polite society.

Now it was just simply the thrum of the city. A heartbeat you couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, not from all the way up in the clouds. A different world, up there, away from everything else.

Away from how you always got dragged back down.

You don’t settle. There is no pull here for you, where gravel gets stuck in your shoes and light reflects off the road. Not even computers that cry their name, still, seven years too late, can keep you safe in four walls. Cord cut, freedom keeping you aloft.

Except for a phone call. The reveal. Defeat. A broken leg and bruised spirit and now more than ever, you want to leave, go.

You’re yanked back down to Earth, one way or another. Hooked around your ankle, keeping you locked into the gravity. It’s their smile, how their fingers splay across your back, finding your centre. Only when you set them on a sidewalk, trying not to fiddle with your fingers, do you bite back words.

Words you had buried, like concepts. Pipe dreams of a teenager, locked in a box, key left behind. Nine months, of being in their orbit had brought that forward. And you had suffered, god, you had _suffered_ to be here. Lost too much to ever regain, and there was no time to mourn the past.

Because, you know, at the end of the day… this was all done for them. And you’ve already let go of regret.


	31. in pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: [Holds the other’s hand when they think the other won’t notice] chentega. steel pov

You hate hospitals. How light burns behind your eyelids, and the acute awareness of life holding on. Clenching your hands in the blankets, you don’t think how they should’ve taken them away, even for a moment.

Compromised. You could’ve been compromised. Would they even be able to tell, that you were gone? Lost, perhaps, with a deep and broken scar, stretching too wide to seal?

Don’t think like that, you tell yourself. Repeat Ortega’s words. Your life is not your own.

But that thought hurts, right in a place you had never come to terms with. And it _burns_ , something that no amount of ignorance and compartmentalisation would fix. Stings in a way you hadn’t expected, now, with the thought of Ortega. And his words.

Had you not made it up those stairs. Not seen the _thing_ , the _monster,_ at the top. You. You’re not sure. You might’ve been too late for him.

You don’t think about Sidestep. Don’t want to. Because that was another kind of pain, unfamiliar and unwelcome, that stings your eyes and _your life is not your own, Chen_. Sidestep was gone, and you were here. Routine check up. You wanted out.

Roll your head to the side, looking for the button to signal a nurse over. Even as your pulse skyrockets, and the little machines beep a little too loudly, you focus on the button. On getting out. That your life was not your own.

“Chen.”

A voice that stops you. Steels you, if you bought into that irony. Always on your left, and Ortega was no different this time as well as others. In a chair, curled in a way that would’ve been uncomfortable in any other way. But Ortega is smooth and easy, passing off mild discomfort as nothing more than a hiccup in conversation.

You do not comment on the bags under his eyes. “You’re awake.”

“You too.”

Hand lowering back to the bed. You don’t ask: is it over? That was childish and ignorant. Unwelcome, much like the next words out of your mouth. “I’m sorry.”

And you mean it. Even as Ortega visibly breaks before you, with how his eyes well and lip wobbles. Rarely does he break, and this was the tipping point. Only you, him, and the walls would bear witness to this.

You do not comment at the weight on your hand, something you would not have registered, had you not looked down. Ortega crumpled, arm covering his face as he leans forward. Against the bed, trying to stop his shoulders from shaking. A strange sort of comfort you had not experienced in so long, a lump rises in your throat. You stare ahead, refusing to blink away the tears. News on the television, volume down low. Watch as the world burns, and don’t think about how you were left to pick it up, all over again.


	32. map it out (in your eyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargestep. ortega pov.

You pass the bottle back, and map out a constellation with your hands. At least, you think it’s one. Doesn’t matter if you fumble over technicalities, anyway, as Logan laughs loud into the night. And that was always better than maintaining your mask.

“What’s that then?” She nudges you as she asks, trying to sit up to take a sip of the shitty beer, but fumbles on her way. It takes you everything not to snort as you laugh.

You do snort. She laughs harder.

Bottle firmly discarded, when she settles back down, she almost rests her head against your shoulder. Close enough that you can see the regrowth of her natural hair if you squint. _Brown_. Wouldn’t have been your first guess.

“That’s,” and you pause, for effect. “Orion’s Belt.” Draw your hands wide, pinpointing each and every star. Biggest and brightest this time of year.

Logan’s question comes after a few beats. “Why a belt?”

You nearly choke, you’re sure you nearly did. “Because… it looks like one?” Something in your tone obviously gives away the ridiculousness of the question. Everyone knew about it — there was a good half a dozen conspiracy films about it too.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say Logan blushed. “It doesn’t.”

“It does,” you shoot back, without missing a beat.

“Nope.”

“Yeah.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yah huh.”

Crosses her arms, and she’s closer now. Head tilted the same way as yours. You realise that she was trying to see what you did, and you hold your hands up again, all the same. Pinpoint the stars.

“How can you not see it?”

The silence that follows is remarkably awkward, and Logan all but rolls away with a: “Well, _I_ don’t think it looks like a belt.”

You don’t push. You want to, because the alcohol has made you lax, and the smell of her shampoo still lingers, and for one whole minute she was warm against your side. Not the first time you have been thankful she couldn’t read your mind.

Logan is wobbly as she sits up, tipping whatever was left of it down her throat. Discarded with the other bottles, and she’s a right side better than you are, getting to her feet. Pulls you up with some effort, a grunt of how much you weigh.

“I’m big-boned.” A regular line, that she repeats in time with you. Albeit a little higher, with a little more mockery.

“Come on, hero. Let’s get you home before there’s a search party out.”

Stretching your arms over your head, limbs almost functioning once more, you mean it when you say, “Would it be so bad, for one night?”

She looks at you differently then. A look you’d have to break down, when sobriety set in, and you weren’t taken away, off somewhere else. Thinking of everything else but that look. But there’s no snappy reply, to settle into rhythm known. Logan chuckles to herself, hand on your back to encourage you towards the fire escape.

“Maybe some other time, Ricardo. Less beers.”

You let her lead, because there’s a lightness in her step, and her head bobs to some unheard song. When she looks up at you, Logan’s smile reaches her eyes. And quietly, so light that you almost miss it, you think that that was because of _you_. Because of shitty beers and midnight stargazing and how you hold out your hand, insisting you couldn’t do it yourself.

How Logan takes your hand, with a roll of her eyes, but her fingers are warm and dry, and she doesn’t let go, even when you reach solid ground. Stars above, she looks up, as if trying to read them once more.

“I still don’t think it’s a belt,” she murmurs.

You laugh loud, echoing in the alley around you. Sling an arm around her shoulders, pulling her back into the main street. Back into reality. Nothing to say, really, as her arm slips around your waist. Laid out in front of you, and you think, _thank you_.


	33. no such thing as mourning in peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> steel pov. implied chargestep.

When you finally find Ortega, the sun was setting behind the high rises and the world was going quiet. Thrum that buries its way into your ears, drowning everything else out. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it sounded like footsteps — your own, even — climbing up that godforsaken staircase.

Shake your head. Don’t think about that.

Ortega doesn’t seem to notice you. Or, politely, ignores your presence. Staring at his hands, even as you stand beside him.

“Didn’t get very far,” you comment, idly, looking out over the cemetery. Rows and rows of headstones, fresh flowers spotting nearly every second one. A memorial wall was going to be erected soon, they had said in the conference today.

Right before Ortega had announced his retirement. “Yeah, well, you know me… always slow when it matters most.”

He’d been picking at his nails again. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen that particular habit out in the open, but the skin was drawn too low to be comfortable. Ortega must’ve noticed you staring, as he tucks his hands into his jacket.

You crouch then, ignoring the ache in your knees as you did so. Hand not resting on his shoulder, as he shies away from the potential contact. Just on the particular headstone he had chosen to rest against. “No one blames you, Ortega.”

It’s the same line just about everyone had been spouting for the last week, you know. But it was true. _No one_ knew who, or what, was sitting at the top of that building. There was never going to be a way to control what happened.

“I don’t care about all that,” he sighs, shaking his head a little as he went. “None of that shit matters to me anymore.”

If your face slipped into a frown, Ortega didn’t comment. Hands back out, fiddling with the mods in his palms. The skin was red and raw, blood beading along the lines of his hands. You should’ve noticed that sooner, and you kick yourself for it.

But that had been on the bottom of the pile, when you’d arrived. In your gut, you knew where you would find him, not even hiding, and you move your hand. There’s no writing on this side, but the in memoriam speech was stamped on your core. Ortega’s too.

“She wouldn’t have wanted this.” And it hurts to pull those words out. Perhaps you meant them, deep down.

Now, in this moment, it was more a reminder. _Your life is not your own, Chen_. Ringing in your ears, so you let yours hang just there. Push yourself up to stand, take those few steps around to see the way **SIDESTEP, HERO, FRIEND** was stamped along the front. No name, no dates. Hollow reminder that she had existed, even momentarily, for some.

A fading memory. You know you shouldn’t think of her like that. Especially when there was a plaque, _Logan Walsh, Sidestep_ , sitting at your desk, waiting to be added to the board in headquarters. That was your job now, to add her name to those who had given their lives in the line of duty.

It wasn’t even hers to give. “You don’t have to do the job, Ortega. But I want you to come back.”

“I retired after—”

“Punching a reporter doesn’t matter to me. I don’t give a fuck.” You focus, on not letting the anger crack your voice. Marshal, now. It was all about control. “I’ll see you at headquarters on Monday.”

“Fuck off, Chen,” is what he says, but there’s no weight there. A hiccup, maybe, that tells of whatever fragile calm he’d created in the time he’d been sitting alone had fractured.

You know it was because of you.

One last look at the headstone. A vase by the side, that had all the delicate touch of being placed by Ortega’s mother. You recognise the flowers, if only because you had to bear witness to one too many attempts from Ortega flourishing a bouquet in Logan’s face of them. 

Lilacs, the likes of which that had invaded the halls of headquarters more than once. Ortega sighs, sniffling now. No snappy comments, and you leave him to drown in the memories.

“Monday, Ortega.”

You think you hear him mumble, “I know,” but it’s lost to you. You’re already gone.


	34. keep it out of sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargestep. ortega pov.

“What are you doing?”

Your voice manages to catch her off guard. If you were not as interested in just what she was doing with a needle and thread, you might’ve teased Logan for jumping damn near six feet in the air. But she catches herself in the thumb anyway, and you’re leaning over the back of the couch.

Close enough to notice the way her ears were tinged pink, and how she avoided your gaze.

“Logan?” you call, softly, “is something wrong?”

In her hands was one of your old hoodies, from a time well before your mods. Washed one too many times in only the most recent months, as it had become one of her favourites. You didn’t recall there being any holes in it, regardless, and couldn’t quite make out why she was tucking away the arms.

“No, nothing!” Too quick to answer. “Just making sure I hadn’t put my thumb through it the other day.”

Ah, yes. One of Logan’s unfortunate habits. But that doesn’t stop how you frown. “What _are_ you doing?”

And then there’s a huff. Watch the way Logan seems to roll answering you over in her mind, before giving up. Moves the one she had been handling to the side, to reveal one of your favourites.

“It was a stupid idea.” But she shows you. Not looking you in the eye, oh no, but honestly you can’t blame her.

Especially when you can feel the burn of your own cheeks, too. In your hands, you hold up the sleeve, a blink and you miss it sort of moment, where there was the smallest pin sewed in. Wound in tight, you were sure, and the stitches were almost perfect.

But it shone gold in the afternoon light, as you turned the sleeve out. A tender little heart, just there. Logan crossed her arms then, staring at her feet. Waiting for you. “I lo—like it.” Swallow the words. “Thank you.”

Pause. “You’re welcome.” She was cherry red, covering her face now.

“Can I do the same for yours?”

“What? No!”

“It’s only fair.”

She cracks, pulling your hoodie from your hands. Something about taking it out, right this instance! And you can’t help it, how you all but fall over the back of the couch. On her, trying to take it back. How she laughs and tries to push you away, but you kiss her.

God, how you kiss her.

 

You remember the moment like it was yesterday.

Hadn’t expected to find the hoodie. Yours, or hers. Tucked in the very far corner of a cupboard. How they had survived the firefight in your apartment was beyond you. But you pull them out, soft and worn. Feel along the left sleeves, just to be sure. Just to be safe.

Thumb finds the little pins, and you feel your heart break all over again.


	35. and she will eat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> random pov.

There’s a woman sitting at the cafe, and it’s not the first time you’ve seen her there. And from where you are, across the road, you can make out small details.

Colour of hair ( _blonde_ ), choice of drink ( _coffee_ ), cigarette between fingers ( _right hand dominant_ ). There’s a file at your table, with a photo and portfolio. You know her name, age, height. All various little details bundled into four pages, but it doesn’t stop you from getting up.

The tip you leave is far too polite, but the short trip across the street isn’t. “Is this seat taken?”

She smiles and you do too. (strange) Not the practiced smile of years, but this one is new, fresh. Mimicked upon her face as she sips her coffee and motions with her eyes. You sit and order and relish the silence.

(you do not want to)

“Nice day.”

“Mmm.”

Your mind is soft and relaxed, and you do not question how the file ends up on the table. Like an old habit. You have no need to question, how she slips it into her bag with thanks. Only that your gaze is hollow, and you need.

_Need?_

There’s a spot, just below her lip. Oddly fascinating. You cannot draw your eyes away, but take the offered hand with the whisper of “come with me.” A pit forms in your stomach, but you are not afraid.

(yes. yes you are. run. run away. oh god please let me go.)


	36. old times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anathema pov.

Charge is nothing if not predictable, Anathema has to note, in how he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, whistling a rather jaunty tune.

Whilst this was only a social visit, a few concerned locals calling an increase in activity, he was still taking the opportunity to prance around. Not enough for him to have his face splattered over all kinds of papers, but Anathema had to deal with it in person.

“Look, we go in, have a look around, and bail, got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Waves her off, and there’s a couple of infatuated looks thrown his way.

Disgusting. “Seriously, Charge.”

“I am serious.”

Anathema doesn’t comment on the way his voice sparks, only a fraction, before it’s swept away in the smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes this time, but Charge continues to wave at a gaggle of girls, and the moment is gone.

Fine, she could change her tune as well. It was almost too easy to keep wailing on him about the flirting and the winking and the giggling. “I can’t wait to see the day that you finally fall in love with someone… and they say ‘no’.”

“ _Ow_! That’s rough, honestly.” Charge actually turn then, hand over his heart.

“It’s what you deserve.”

Nose upturned, but not able to stop his grin. “Just for that, you’re not invited to the wedding!”

“Oh? You’re going to the whole ring and ceremony? I’d _love_ to see that.” She’d be willing to put money on it.

“And you would’ve been my best man, Themmie. Tragic.”

“Uh huh, alright. Give it five years, Charge. Then we’ll see whose laughing.”


	37. new life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

Crashing through a roof was not your first priority, and it takes some manoeuvring that was likely not physically possible to land with your hand reaching out. Trying to encourage the nanovores to work faster, or at least weaken the structure, enough for you to land in a curled ball, nursing your arm against your chest.

Damn. Fuck. Hurt like a bitch and with some fumbling, right hand pointed up, you get a few shots in. Enough for the dick who was chasing you to land unceremoniously beside you. Done. A pause, as you listen in for anything to suggest that he had friends. Until there’s blissful silence, and you fall back with a _thud_ of your helmet.

Wait. Hand to your belt, trying to find the pouch you’d hurriedly tied there. Oh, good, not lost. Fish out the little bit of metal, hold it up to the light. Seemed to still be in one piece, at least. Some good news for today.

Tapping your helmet, trying to right the HUD, you look around then. Where in the world did you land? Lots of metal, vague amount of devices that didn’t look quite safe, and a distinct smell of the neighbourhood around your old apartment.

For one horrible moment, you wonder if you died midway. It would be almost ironic that the afterlife smelt like the backend of a sewer. Easing up, mindful that your suit was slowly starting to pull in tight on your left arm, as if to form a splint. One more nudge with your boot for the idiot who followed you, just to confirm they weren’t getting back up, and you’re on your feet, moving. Pushing through doors to see if anyone was in.

Cages, lots of them, but almost all were empty. Quick look at the time suggested that you did in fact likely have time to interrupt whatever kind of ring this was before the cops showed up, if need be. Ducking your head into another, you find a desk, computer still left behind. A front?

So where the fuck was everyone?

There’s one last door, handle not budging when you jiggle it. That was new — who actually locked doors with keys these days. Another push, and you can’t flex your fingers on your left hand. Well, you could take it down realistically. It was barely anything stronger than plywood, surely.

And then you hear scuffling behind the door.

That kicks you into overdrive. You don’t speak, if only because you have find the voice modulator to not quite give the message of ‘do not be afraid’ pleasant. Just line up your right hand, above the handle. Smooth punch through, door offering now resistance, and you fiddle with the handle, finding the key.

Swinging the door open, you’re ready. Some creepy sex dungeon, maybe a few guys loading drugs into a bag, didn’t matter! Ready! Set!

_Bark!_

There’s a shuffle, the same noise as before, but when you look down, you register it as not movement from something relatively human sized. Puppies? Barely able to run properly, but they’re bouncing, sliding over the floor in an attempt to get towards you. Three of them, pint sized, and their minds are sweet and happy.

Crouching down, you reach out your hand. Watch how they sniff and roll. Several weeks old, maybe. Closer to a couple of months? You can’t say, because they were thin and shaking. Looking around again, you put together the metal, tools, cages. An abandoned vet? Who would abandon a _vet_?

Maybe it was a front. Made the most sense. Stepping into the room, mindful of how they continued to roll around your feet, there’s not much in the way of furniture. A table, a few chairs, busted hole in the wall. Ah, yes, definitely something not legal. Must’ve had to hurry away.

No need to leave dogs behind. And they’re little things. Slightly bigger than your hand. Three of them, and it takes some effort to pick them up, weight them on your arm despite the pressure. You don’t find anything else, apart from a torn open bag of food that was long past being empty. Jumping in your arms, trying to lick at your helmet.

Huh. Well.

Out the door, you’re more than halfway down the street by the time LDPD arrive. Ducking into an alley, map playing out before your eyes on the HUD, and trying to keep the dogs from squirming too much. Definitely something new to add to the list.


	38. punch to the gut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargestep. ortega pov. nsfw.

When she lies back, hand in her hair, pushing it from her face, Ortega wants to revel in the moment. He truly does. But there’s pinpricks against his body, a discomfort low in his gut.

Rolls onto the pillows beside her, and honestly he finds himself just staring at the ceiling longer than he should’ve.

“Hey, it’s fine, you know.” Logan looks over at him, then, skin still flushed, expression hard. “I’m not bothered.”

And the sentiment is sweet, definitely. Ortega lets out a sigh, knows that had it been anyone else, there might be a little more grovelling on his behalf. But Logan knows him, and she’s different, the way she looks at him means something else.

Doesn’t diminish the shame. How he pulls a pillow around, damn near hugging it. Head against the wall, eyes closed. “Thanks.” Short, sharp. Not meaning it at all.

Logan shifts beside him, and she sighs quietly, “I’ve seen the bottles.”

Not like he’d been hiding them. Tells her so. Shifts a little, when Logan’s head finds his shoulder. “I… need them.” It’s not the first time he’d admitted that, but it’s still bitter. Like there’s still an ache, even in that moment, and his fingers twitch at the thought.

Ortega doesn’t consider just how numb he was.

She taps a rhythm against his skin, a song he doesn’t make out. “I’m not judging, Ricardo.”

“I know.”

“It’s _fine_.”

Logan stresses the word, to the point where he almost think she doesn’t believe it. A faulty libido wasn’t the only thing on the outs, anyway. Turning his head, he does press a kiss to her temple. Wills himself to maybe just turn this night around, in the way he wants. To not be stuck, wondering where he went wrong.

To see the bottle of pills out the corner of his eye, shaming him from his bedside table. Logan moves the sheets, burrowing the both of them underneath. Done. That’s it then. Ortega wants to reach for her, to apologise. To do something.

He rolls on his side, staring out. Her hands falter at his side, until she pushes herself against him. Wraps her arm around his waist. There’s kisses peppered along his shoulders, and Ortega has to sigh. Squeeze her fingers. _I’m sorry._


	39. hold it right there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargestep. ortega pov. its a goddamn metaphor

You can’t remember when you started carrying a gun. Was it even on your person, before this moment? Had it always just existed in your hands, solid and cold, threat of fire just beyond the rim?

Shake your head. There’s memories right here, behind your eyes. Play like an old cinema, fractured images that only exist in black and white (and grey). Clambering up the stairs, trying to reach Logan first. Hearing the _bang_! from behind the door, and you remember how you screamed. Throat aches like you had never stopped, that seven years hadn’t burned away at your very being.

But she had fired at that _thing_. Fired and gone, out the window. Your fingers had just missed her, mere centimetres—

like the ones between her head, and the end of your gun.

Logan breathes, smiles in a way you thought you once knew. New angles to her face that you’re not sure you had noticed before (didn’t want to notice, didn’t want to consider). How shadows seem to hook in, and even as her helmet lay cracked and tattered around her, screen fizzling out for good,

she doesn’t stop

_smiling_

Stop! You want her to stop! How she grabs you by the wrist and oh god, pull you closer. Closes the gap that you didn’t want to. Holding you just _there_ , right there. A voiceless threat. Promise? Push. She wants you to push and fall over the carefully constructed edge.

One you had made for yourself since that day. Sandbags to try to keep all the water out. There was no brick and mortar here, not anymore. And all the holes had been plugged, as fast and often as you could keep up.

But you just couldn’t do it anymore. Your fingers shake and your head hurts and Logan,

her smile reaches her eyes. no mirth. acceptance. **love**.

 

She loves you, and you hate her for that.


	40. freedom's promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> flystep. herald pov. its a goddamn metaphor.

Let me go.

Filtered through the distorted, but you know the weight. Feel it, when the sigh comes out strangled. Watch it, when the latches on the helmet pop and hiss, thrown to the side. Not even a glance.

Screen relaying the message. _Let me go_. And Logan isn’t upset. Angry. Resolute and calm in how she weighs and judges your heart. Squeeze around your chest, you’re sure. Have you been found?

But the silence does not linger. Wordless, in how she pulls pieces off. The layers of a carefully crafted mask. Sidestep, and **Sidestep** , dropping around her feet. Gauntlets and her chest piece, until she’s all but in a skin suit. Hands raised.

You know this stance. Spent every waking moment thinking of the first swipe left, testing the waters. The rush forward, catching you on the ribs, elbow, another thrust with her knee, that you dance away from.

Let her go.

Eerie concentration. Do you even register to her, as a person? As a body in front of you, that throws your weight forward, catching her, throwing her down. But she is slippery and practiced and winds herself out of your grasp, legs locking around your arm and neck. Pulling. Tightening.

Gravity shifts, and you kick her down. Hard, enough to change the gears in your mind. _Oh god oh no I’m sorry I’m so sorry please._

Logan stands, fists raised. Not registering the blood, your fear. A grin splits her face, and you need. To let her.

Go.


	41. follow the rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov.

“What do you think?”

“What—what do I _think_?!” You snap your eyes to the side, at how Chen continues to stare, even if his voice was level. “What am I _supposed_ to think, Chen?”

Hands meet the desk once more, and you don’t stop looking in. Can’t, with how you watch the familiar figure in the middle of the room, other side of the glass.

Sitting, hands bound to the table. But her face was turned upwards, eyes closed. Mouthing something that the microphones couldn’t pick up. You can’t track the words well enough, catching bits and pieces that don’t make sense.

“She turned herself in.”

And that’s the strangest part. How she’d walked in, hands raised. Blank. So utterly blank. You hadn’t seen anything on her face since, and it had been hours. So you had gone through the standard procedures, dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s. Made it look right on paper, as you tried to work out what you should do. What Logan would want you to do.

Until Chen had arrived.

Now you were stuck, at the crossroads. Trying to work it all out. “Chen…”

Argent and Herald had been kept out, relegated to just their titles, nothing more. Too big of a leap, to look at them like anything other than Rangers. Enough complaints from the both of them to make your head spin. But it was just you, Chen, the mirror. Logan. “What are we going to do?”

Grits his teeth. Not looking at you as he talks. But his fingers are working on a sheet, pen mapping your answer. “We don’t do anything, Ortega. Follow the rules.”

In your peripherals, the message stands. Don’t look down. Don’t watch as he screws the paper up in an instant, shoving it in his pocket. “Do what we’ve always done.”

“Y-yeah.” Neither of you comment on the way your voice jumps, how you swallow. “Just like we’ve always done.”

 

Logan stops talking to her self, head dropping down then. Chin meeting her chest, and she looks up. Staring straight ahead, right at you. And you blink, seeing her eyes linger behind your lids. Don’t consider how they seem to be almost red.


	42. where do your dreams really go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> flystep. herald pov.

When you wake up, you’re surprised to find the lamp on. Low, but the warm glow has you turn, other side of the bed. Looking up and over the patchwork back, tracing the thick orange tattoos and scars alike. They’re hard to move on from, every time you find one that overlaps, you follow, eyes working hard to commit them all to memory.

If only because you don’t know when will be the last time you have this. Logan is hunched over, head in hands, and you can see the pills on the stand. Glass of water. Fingers twitching on her head and you might have suggested she just smoke, you don’t care, but last time she had actually turned her nose up. Something about sensibilities. Lines. Politeness.

You stopped listening, thinking, because she’s shifting, aware you’re awake. Watch how everything bunches and tightens, slow motions. Linger on muscle, scar, tattoo, hair. Muscle. Scar. Wet your lips and reach out to her hand. “Are you alright?”

“Bad dream. Sorry for waking you.” Voice still rough, rolling with that hint of an accent you may never quite place. Made you think about her comments about the training you went through to be this person. How she never got that option.

Would she have taken them?

But Logan slides back under the sheets, moulding herself into you. All but wedges herself under your chin, arms tight around you. And you her, pulling her as close as possible, not thinking about how her eyes had been tight and dark. That you can feel the ridges and bumps under your fingers and you wonder, wonder which nightmare had been attached to these reminders of her life.

She sighs against your skin, and you don’t think about how your shoulder is wet, and her nails bury into your spine, nor how she’s warm. Just that she’s here, like this, and you listen to her heartbeat until the both of you can fall back asleep.


	43. reminiscent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anathema pov.

“So where’s that vigilante you were talking about earlier?”

“Which one?” Charge settles you with _The Look_ , and you grin. “Fine, fine. Uh, should be here soon, I think. Hopefully she got the right address.”

“‘She’?”

“Yeah, _she_. Just don’t hook up with this one, alright, Charge? No need to keep changing the combinations on the doors just because you make out with one too many vigilantes, and they get the idea in their head that they _own_ you.”

For his part at least, Charge blinks slowly, and then you watch the slow crimson fill his cheeks, as he takes it all in. “But I don’t make out with _all_ of them.”

“You make out with _enough_ of them.” Don’t need to remember the last four so called vigilantes alone, one of which you were certain was just using that as an excuse to dress up in spandex and make out with government certified heroes.

But that was something you and Steel had lamented over only last week, adding another photo to the wall. Not the fridge, that was villains only, but _the wall_ , a small collection of just enough evidence to ask Charge to just. Not. Covered in medical receipts, too.

That was Steel’s idea, and you’ll take that one to your grave.

Phone beeps, and enough of a distraction for you to hold you hand up, uh uh, no talking, and you turn to speak. “Hey.”

“ _I’m nearly there now._ ”

“Traffic?”

“ _Nope_.”

Hang up, and you stare at your phone too long to pick up on the sound of something grinding against the concrete. Look over your shoulder, and—

“Oh, fuck me.”

You can only watch as your contact, _your_ vigilante, pulls to a stop beside the two of you, as you’re still not certain who spoke. Kicks her heel down on her skateboard, catching it with one hand. Seemingly forgone the entire mask today, save for the heavy breather and goggles. You don’t comment on the way her scars hadn’t completely healed along her head.

“You rang?” voice only slightly muffled, but it was directed at you. Nod, quickly, yep, you had rung, but this was too fast moving for your liking.

Hand in her pocket, head turning to show that she was staring not you, but Charge, down. The unfamiliar. Carefully, you stare out the corner of your eye, trying to judge where Charge was at. But he can’t help himself, can he. With a certain amount of horror, you watch the way his face turns into that godawful look he whipped out a little too fast sometimes.

“I’m Charge.”

Extending his hand, you want to cover your face to stop watching the absolute shit show that was surely about to unfold. It had taken you weeks of stepping into her area to get her to even talk to you, let alone get her to not get too mad about how Charge had indirectly hurt her during something he doesn’t even remember.

Keep it together, Anathema, you can do this. Watch how she cocks an eyebrow, face turned towards his hand, before back up again. Nothing can be seen behind those goggles. You don’t know you could possibly explain to anyone that you got Charge murdered.

But the silence ends quickly, as she turns, looking away. “What’s the job, Anathema?” Leaves Charge hanging completely.

You will take it. Don’t even consider pressing her to be civil, even if Charge looks rather mollified by such behaviour. Take a step towards her, one look back at Charge. Watch how he flexes his fingers back, completely unsure of where to go from here.

“Uh, yeah, I need your help with something. It’s this way…”

Always a first for everything, huh.


	44. habits are best formed in pairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargefly. herald pov.

Definitely a Thursday. Morning meetings meant you could find Ortega in the northernmost gym at exactly eleven. Always like clockwork. Maybe the only thing he was actually on time for.

You’ve been told your welcome to join in, as he seems to take whatever was on his mind out on weights. Politely, you always decline. Sit on the sidelines, watch. Learn. Wait for that inevitable break, where he turns to you, soft smile, apology at the ready.

“Sorry, something on my mind.”

Every Thursday, right on schedule. And that’s your cue, for getting to your feet — remember, _walk_ — and get ready for the spar. It’ll hurt, because he doesn’t realise his own strength, and you’re just a little bit,

Always just a _little_ bit, wasn’t it? Sweep, left hook, caught in an elbow that you never roll away from fast enough. Years of working on hand to hand and there’s always the need to throw yourself into the air, pull back. Save yourself.

Too close, and that’s it. You’re done for. Gravity is not your friend, as back, meet mat. Never hard enough to see stars, as you think that Ortega is being polite, catching you as you fall. Don’t ever linger on that thought, because those threads are dangerous, and ten years should be enough to let go.

But it never is, as he’s laughing, tension around his eyes gone once again. Every Thursday, it’s you, looking up. And you don’t mind, never have.

Especially not when you twist then, kick your leg out. Catch him hard enough in the back of the knee, having him stumble down. Your turn to laugh, puff of air at the look of stunned silence you are met with. This must be a first, perhaps enough to just break the chain. Sources had told you that there were only a few ways to shut him up. Looks like those sources were right.

And yet the palm that pats you on your chest, a ‘good work, Daniel’, lingers. Warm. Close your eyes. You hadn’t stopped it. Hadn’t pulled the plug. Maybe you were almost there, almost on. Except you were fooling yourself from the very beginning, weren’t you? Every Thursday. Like goddamn clockwork.


	45. reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargefly. ortega pov.

Perhaps you were projecting, trying to box him in. Figure out all the pieces, see how they stick. Were you going to admit it out loud? No, never. So you threw him to the wolves, let them fix the hair, the accent, the eyes. Change and shift and it wasn’t a grimy teen out of place anymore, wide eyed, flinching at the shuffling of papers and murmurs behind closed doors. Like they’d wiped that person away completely.

Fresh. New. Marketable. Maybe that’s why you couldn’t help yourself. Reach out. Pull back. Never let yourself get too close. Can’t help but pushing in. Trying to find out where you go, how you slot back into place. Lost yourself there for a few good years, don’t want the same to happen to him.

Catch twenty-two. How you’d end up, standing at the edge of the window. Glass cutting in. Don’t go back there, not right now. Breathe, deep and slow. Focus on your hands. Fingers, thumbs. Touch, form a pattern. There we go, nice and steady.

He’s nice. Sees you, at the back. Sweating even in your suit. And whilst you figured he’d be a talker, Daniel is quiet. Solid. At least a good few inches off the ground to be eye level with you, but hey, you’re not going to argue. Questions, but no answers for him, as you inhale. Nod. Box, unbox.

Hand on your shoulder. You shouldn’t lean into it the way you do. Let it ground you, wash out the way your mind wraps itself in iron wool, and there’s your name. Just there. Pull yourself out.

Pat his hand. Thank you. Does Daniel understand how much you mean it? Maybe not. Maybe one day he will. Fingers linger a little too long, and you feel the slide of his knuckles under your touch. Not now. Never mind it just not being the right place, but it wasn’t the right time.

Still far too much static in your head. Had to work all of that out. But you meet his eye, smile in a way you hope pulls through. Daniel is quicker than a lot of people give him credit for, but he’s settled on the ground once more, staring dead ahead. It’s good if he doesn’t know. You can live with that.


	46. it's you, isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargestep. ortega pov. bgm: down by the water - the drums

Sidestep. Pretender. Weight over you. Hand at your throat. You know, this will be it. There’s no peace here with that thought, even if you had convinced yourself that maybe, this time, you would be okay. That you could have let go, let it all go. Packed your life into one small box, and put it away.

But. _But_. You wrap your fingers around their wrist, hold them there. “Do it.” Pain does not let you go. Crawls behind your eyelids and you wake, four am, watching how she had fallen. Eyes closed, embracing the fall.

It was your time. No it wasn’t. You don’t want this, but Sidestep hesitates, strengthens their grip. Almost lets go. Stutter from behind their helmet, visor distorted colour, message repeating over and over.

You almost wish you could make it out.

Leg at an awkward angle. Their arm limp beside them. Both of you, messes. Absolutely. Last stand. Should’ve put it all into the four walls, taken the next train out. Remember her with tickets at your door. _Please,_ please _, let’s go, let’s get away_. She’d run before you’d had a chance to talk, leaving you with times, dates. Nothing.

Everything. Have to blink, focus on short breaths. Weight leans on your chest once more, pushing down on ribs and metal and if you had the will, you might’ve thrown them off. Might’ve taken them out, taken them in.

What were you doing anymore, anyway? Let your arm fall to the side. “Do it, Sidestep. _Do it_.”

Something breaks them, a snap of tension you feel from the ends of your hair to your toes. You can’t say what that sound was, the one they make, shake from, but you could say it was pain. Deep and physical, that has them pull away. Hand on chest now. Right hand, weight resting _just_ there.

And maybe you had always known. Didn’t want to admit to knowing. Suspicion had burrowed into your subconscious a long time ago, but you had spent so much time convincing yourself otherwise, that maybe this was different. She was different.

So, you leap. Reach with two hands, finding the clasps on their helmet. Sidestep doesn’t fight you, minute shivering the only reaction they give. You wait to meet the ground, to fall, but it doesn’t happen.

After all, you knew. Let the helmet fall to the side, heavy in your hands, and Logan is underneath it all. You know it’s her. Not metaphorically. Not even just physically looking. If only because of how her fingers curl into your skin suit, and her left arm is limp, and tears roll down her face.

“I knew I’d make you cry over how attractive I am one day.” Your voice is crackly, and the attempt to be smooth isn’t quite over the line, but the weight is gone. The feeling, eating at your gut for all this time; like it had never existed in the first place at all.

You don’t have peace, but Logan chokes on a sob, throws her one good arm around you. And she’s apologising, rapid fire words that meld into one, abstract and whole. Perhaps you shouldn’t hug her back. Maybe this is your time to strike. A crater is around you, the aftermath of all this pain, of all this bullshit.

(was it worth it? you don’t answer that question)

But she’s in your arms, and it’s _her_. Sidestep. The real one. You know it is. Cheek wet, as she continues to cry and cry, pushing into you, holding you closer, every closer. Just your name, just the grounding. The reality. Both feet on the ground, never any time to look anyway. Never been your strong suit.

It had always been Logan’s, after all. Press your face into her shoulder, squeeze your eyes shut. No peace, no box. But you’d made the leap. There might be hope, trigger light spark, somewhere in those dark, dark eyes of hers.

And that made it all okay.


	47. (human)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargent. argent pov.

You like the way she looks at you. Sees past the silver, the cage. Maybe sees you.

Just you and only you, and try as you might to convince yourself otherwise (after all, you’d heard the rumours!), that soft smile? You. _You you you_. Like a beat in your throat, and that might be your heart, even after all this time. Still there, still going strong.

So your fingers brush and she brings you coffee and you find your drawer full of little snacks you mentioned one time, off handedly. Surprising amount of information you’d given away, but she’d taken it in her stride. Surprised you.

Like how you keep surprising yourself, each and every time you turn towards the door. Seeing her there. Seeing her smile.

For the first time in a long time, you like the way you feel, when you smile back.


	48. i'll wear white

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unspecified pov.

The first step.

How the music drops, soft and light, carrying the hush through the crowd. Don’t turn, not yet. You can’t turn, anyway. Rooted to the spot, hands clenched in front of you.

There’s silence, long drawn and you see how there’s a nod. At you? No telling. Time slows and you. And you?

Cry. You’re crying and smiling and you watch how she walks, one foot in front of the other. Can feel how tears run down your cheeks and you don’t care who sees. Not when she _smiles_ , at you, only for you, the only two people in the world in that moment.

She’s so careful in each step, and is the world just going slow? Could you smile any brighter? She’s in white and you’re in love and you take her by the hand, pulling her closer.

Just the two of you, no one else.


	49. the first curl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargestep. ortega pov.

When you walk over to where Sidestep and Anathema are sitting, lounging, along the roof, you can’t quite make out what they were doing. But there was laughter, and insistence in ‘no, no, Themmy, I’m not showing you again’. Another shove of ‘oh come on, I’ll show you how to—’ but it’s cut off, with how they turn towards you.

“Charge.”

“Charginald.”

Without a beat, they respond at the same time. You frown, not quite sure who said what exactly, but in gold cursive script above their heads, you could almost read the ‘we were up to no good’ perfectly. And naturally, you don’t believe it.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Nothing at all,” Sidestep responds without a beat. Mask turned up around her mouth, and there’s a hint of a smile just there.

Dangerous. “Absolutely nothing?”

Anathema bounces back with an “Absolutely nothing.” Reaffirmed, one hundred percent.

As if you can’t notice the bag from a nearby shop, and a part of you knows you should probably reprimand them for walking into a supermarket in uniform,

But there are those fancy little cakes you like on top, and gold script above their heads again. Alright, fine. Sit down on the other side of Anathema, dig into the bag. Neither of them argue, settling back into a conversation you can’t keep up with. Might be the one from before, but you’re too caught up

“Are those cherries?” Only a handful were left, really, but there were pits on a lid, and several stems tied. Not the only remains left of fruit, as you could see several lots of peel as well.

“Imported. _Very_ expensive.”

Without missing a beat, Sidestep speaks up, around a mouthful. “Anathema put it on the Rangers card.”

“Hey!”

You groan, politely ignoring how Anathema goes to throttle Sidestep. “You’re going to have to explain that one.”

“No way.”

Arguments rile up again, completely and totally dissolving into laughter. Elbows and comments and maybe you should be concerned that the two of them would attract attention from security, but neither of them seem to care at that moment. Too caught up in whatever Anathema was trying to get Sidestep to do.

“Hey, Charge, I have a question—”

“—Themmy, _no—_ ”

“—Want to see a trick?”

You don’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t Anathema juggling. Faster, faster. Sidestep flicking her hands in between, trying to put her off. But to no avail, as they land cleanly in Anathema’s hands, held up with a “ _tada_!”

“Cute. Might give you an edge in the next fight.”

“I was thinking that I could make little balls of goo, maybe throw them at people?” They grin, big and bright, and you have to roll your eyes. Try not to encourage it.

Gotta be all upright and stiff. “Baffle them with clownery, right?” Nope, can’t keep the smile off your face, and how Anathema takes it in their stride.

“Don’t be fooled, Charge. I could put even you and _your_ circus tricks to shame.”

“What circus tricks? Hey, Anathema, don’t ignore me. What ‘circus tricks’?” Try to move, grab them, but they dance up and away. Taking lessons from Sidestep, it seemed.

Sidestep, who was leaning back, watching how Anathema continues to dodge, duck and dive out of your reach. Laughing and giving tips. You think she’s looking at you, with how she lingers just a little too long, but the mask is in place, and you have to fall back to the ground, done.

Roll your head over, “thanks for the help.”

“Always happy to help.”

Snort, and lay flat on the ground now. Stretch your fingers out wide. Bump against something and you turn to see it’s Sidestep. Her hand. Can’t read her face, because her mouth lies flat. But Anathema drops in, quite literally, separating the two of you.

Don’t think about how you feel a little warmer before.

“Sidestep, show him your trick.”

“ _No_.”

“Come on, it’s really cool.”

A tense moment passes, and you wonder who _just_ might give in first. But Anathema is incredibly smug, so much it’s radiating off them in waves not even Sidestep can ignore, before you practically hear them roll their eyes.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Love you, too.”

Sidestep snorts, plucks a stem from an abandoned cherry, and flips Anathema off once more. “I know exactly what you’re up to.”

“Do you?”

“Of course I do, you prick.”

Something wordless passes between them, you can’t hear it. Sidestep can’t hear you. Stem placed on her tongue, and you know what she’s doing next, with the slight movement of her jaw. Oh. Well. Apparently Sidestep had many hidden talents, including tying a cherry stem with her tongue.

You don’t know how that makes you feel, so you try to focus on anything but her lips, how they spread into a smile. Is it a show? Of how her tongue rolls out, unveiling the neatly tied stem. How you can’t look away.

Before she picks it off, drops it to the side, and “voila!”

Suddenly, you are acutely aware of scuffing on the side of your boots. If there is a pause, you let it pass by, until Anathema and Sidestep start again. Something about timing how fast she could do it, do _the trick_ , and you do not think about her lips. Her tongue.

Swallow hard. Think about everything else, of course, of course. You had to.


	50. this pain won't go away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargeflystep. ortega pov.

It’s still dark when you open your eyes. Small blessings, might mean you get another hour to two in before needing to wake up. And the body draped over you is so warm, you curl your fingers into the cotton of his shirt, pull Daniel just a fraction closer. Minute shift, sigh against your shoulder.

You reach out blindly, noting that it was just you two. But there’s empty space, cold, and you crack an eye open, trying to see. Must’ve been closer to sunrise, judging by how there were little beads of light sneaking around the curtain.

Movement, though, breaking it up. Both eyes open now, watching how Logan brushes it aside, only a fraction, and you’re not here. Not in this moment. Not comfortable and safe, but watching again, how she’d pushed the window open. How she’d looked back.

How she’d smiled.

Are you talking? Do words leave you, as you scramble out of the bed. Daniel says something, and Logan turns, just like she _had_. It’s seven years, curled into a little ball, and you grab her arm, pulling her back.

(you made it, _this time_ )

Logan looks at you, through you. Over your shoulder at Daniel and you can hear the low “Ricardo?” from him. Hand on your shoulder now, shaking you just a little.

“I—I thought…”

There’s a look of confusion, that is painted with understanding only moments later. Eyes slide over to Daniel, until Logan finally wraps her arms around you.

“I was going for a smoke.” The explanation is so simple. You want the ground to swallow you whole. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Sorry. _Sorry_.” And you can’t stop repeating the word, as Daniel is firm against your back.

“It’s okay, Ricardo.” Squeezes you so tight that you almost believe him. “It’s _okay_.”

You’re shaking, you know. But they don’t let you go, and that little ball of fear untangles, just a little, just a touch.


	51. this is it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargeflystep. sidestep pov. amber prompted this one.

The nanovores break containment, and you don't realise. Not yet, because you're blinking and pushing blood from your eyes and oh god, how did it go this wrong. Sopping wet and are you still walking? Did you make it out? Did the others?

You look over your shoulders, and the world is crumbling. Cold fear strikes you, and you try to reach the Rat King. Wake them up. There's no response.

If your voice comes out in a scream, Daniel can't hear it. Ricardo turns too late. Like a black hole opens up behind you, and you can see them reach for him. Hand, outstretched. No. No no no no **NO!**

Mind can't touch. Can't connect. You can't even feel them, warm, cold, nothingness. Like they reject you, completely, but you need them to see _you_. Only _you_. Are they still neutered? What would they do to Ricardo? Daniel might just have a chance.

You remember the mods back at the auction and you're sick, hands outstretched. Take me. Take me take me take me. Focus pinpoint right at your forehead. Watch how the arm of your suit dissolves. Your hand.

"Get him out of here!"

"Logan, no—!"


	52. you should've left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargestep. sidestep pov. amber prompted this one

“Show me.”

“What?”

Can’t help how you jump back just a little at how two words can hold so much mirth. But Ortega doesn’t indulge you in repeating himself, arms folded across his chest. Sparks roll over his knuckles, and the static in your mind spikes. Anger.

Anger on a man with low impulse control was never a good idea.

There’s no such thing as silence, as he speaks again. Voice rumbling low and deep from out his chest, and any other time you might’ve pressed a hand, just there. “Looks like a—”

“Yeah, a lightning bolt, I remember. Called it advertisement.” Cutting in, you look away. Don’t like how Ortega was looking at you. The old joke hurt a part of you that you were sure had been buried, so you bury your teeth into the inside of your cheek.

“It was on Logan’s left calf.”

“I know where it is.”

“I won’t believe you otherwise.”

Another stab, right in your chest. “I have a burn mark in my chest that looks like a heart. I have the scars on my head from when you fired at me. I have a gunshot wound, _right here_ ,” and your hand goes to your shoulder, “from where I took a bullet for you. _Come on_.”

“I don’t _care_.” Ortega stresses the word. Doesn’t budge. Even though his eyes had followed your hands, and you had seen how he had almost — _almost_ — faltered in his demands. But something in Ortega clicks, holding firm.

“Why that one?” And you press it. Don’t understand the reasoning why. A multitude of scars had been earned in your time running with him. Varying significance, all of them.

You don’t think about how it feels like the muscles in your legs twinge. How your skin suit had been torn, and Ortega had reached for you, as you had crawled out of the glass. Except you’d pushed him away, fear at being discovered gripping you, until he’d worn you down. Promising not to do anything other than treat the wound.

In your mind, you can remember the scar, how it looked later. How Ortega had laughed, even as he’d bandaged you. Fingers lingering just there. _Looks like a lightning bolt. Trying to tell me something?_

To distract you from the pain, back then. Now, it’s a sentence. Finality.

Ortega doesn’t entertain you with an answer. You can’t answer him, either. This leg is new, old. Reattached to replace the one lost in the years you were gone. While your questions about it being from a previous life, or new, had never been answered, the scars were not the same.

“I can’t. I can’t show that one.”

“I need to know.”

“You need to trust me, Ricardo.”

“ _No_.”

“Please.” Step forward. Reach out. “Ricardo, please, you _have_ to believe me.”

Brushes past you, without a word. You watch, how he hunches his shoulders, holds the door. How the wood seems to splinter under his hand, as he turns back. Last time. Looks at you. “Don’t come back here. Please.”


	53. one whole moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chargeflystep. ortega pov. nsfw.

Daniel peppers her neck with kisses as she comes, pulling her back against him. And you can see the way she’s stretched over your cock, fingers splayed either side. How she arcs, one hand firmly in the middle of your chest, as Daniel moves now. A hiss, turned towards him. Your eyes slide shut, as she clenches around you, as you move her hand out the way, thumb against her clit.

None of you last much longer, anyway. Logan moans, head against Daniel’s shoulders, nails digging into your chest, as she comes. For his part at least, his head is buried against her shoulder, and it sounds like a mix of both your names, against her skin. But you just feel everything go bright white, numbness spreading through your fingers and toes, and, _fuck_.

Fuck!

Time gets slow, but Daniel is the first to move. Slowly, you notice, and Logan groans from where she had fallen against you.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, and you watch how the heel of his hands push in along her lower back. How he floats, despite the contact, before dropping on the bed beside you.

“S’okay.” Logan doesn’t move, not yet. Cheek pressed against you, and from what you can see, her eyes were shut. Deep flush on her cheeks.

Your turn to move. Shift your hips, encouraging her to slip between the two of you, and you try not to think about. The last few minutes. How she’d taken you both and you’d felt Daniel against your cock and—

Logan is on her side, leg over you, and for one whole moment, it looks like she’d fallen asleep already. Except Daniel is reaching over her, finding your hand. Sliding up your arm to encourage you to turn over, just a little. Closer. Hand over his, squeeze, and over Logan you can see him grin.

Just the sounds of the three of you breathing deeply. Only one moment to catch your breath. Until you watch how Logan looks up at you, shifts to look at Daniel. Frown, “don’t you say it.”

“This would’ve made it easier.”

For good measure, you give her ass a light slap, talking over how she laughs. “No.”

“Come on. _Shower_.”

“I don’t want to get up…” and she drags the notes out, as you watch Daniel manhandle her up. “Remember this for later, then!”

“Fine, fine!” Wave a hand on the air, reach for Daniel. Pull him close, kissing him deeply. Feeling how he smiles against your lips. Keep him there a little longer.

When you pull back, you notice Logan grinning. And firmly push her face away, much to her protest. “I’ll be in there in a second.”

You’re sure Logan calls you an ‘old man’, as she’s whisked away, so you flip her off, and Daniel laughs. Stretch out on the bed, water running in the next room. Voices filling the air and. You’re happy, sated, warm.


	54. right now, you want this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt by erin

You don’t like how bright the room is. Hurts your eyes, and you pull the glasses out from your jacket. Fix them on your face and lean back. Tap your fingers along your thigh, count the seconds. You want a smoke. Really bad. Want to drag your hands down your face and.

Dr Finch smiles at you as she walks into the room. Hand on a panel by the desk that dims the light. “Sorry, is that better?”

Hum, yeah it was, but that doesn’t mean you wanted to take the glasses off just yet. That meant crossing a line you weren’t sure you were ready for. Second session in and you knew Ricardo was on the other side of the door, waiting. And you don’t know how you feel, knowing full well, that he was willing to wait the entire hour for you.

“So where did you want to start today, Logan?”

Uncross and cross your legs once again. “Do you have any starters?”

That gets a look, and a dip in her mind. You’ve responded, she caught onto that. Keep tapping your fingers now, along the back of the couch. But are you laying bait? Not so sure yourself. Something gnaws and snaps at the idea, tilt your head back now.

Worry about that later.

“How are you feeling today?”

Slippery slope. Bring your eyes down to find her face. Hard not to push your mind in at the edges. Get a feel of just what she was expecting. Easy enough to fill out those answers and skip out. None the wiser.

Suck in your cheeks. Teeth sink in. “Tired.” Always tired. You didn’t know anything else by this point anyway. Such a simple response for her, after all.

And the reaction is instant. With how her mind spreads and all but eats up your response. Dr Finch wants to help. Sticky feeling, that attaches, holds your mind in the palm of her hands. Is it influencing you? Making you want to open your mouth again, to keep talking?

(tastes good want to keep on keep touching need to need to feel)

Shake your head. “I’m just… tired.”


	55. masks don't fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega POV. sidestep days.

She’s a good actor. Almost as good as you.

Anathema brought her in. Something about an apology and theft on a side street and getting caught in crossfire. A fire fight you don’t quite remember. But she respected the no smoking policy, drank only Anathema’s beers, and kept to herself.

Damned if it wasn’t good timing. Damned if you didn’t catch yourself staring out the corner of your eye, a sweep the shouldn’t have happened, tackle around a mook’s middle. Pulls a gun from their holster, aims between the eyes.

The vigilante is quick, you’ll give her that, but you’re quicker, pulling it from her hands. “No guns.”

You’re met with goggles and a mask and the thin strip of skin, the rest hidden behind bandages. Long silence. “No guns.” Murmur of agreement, handing it over. Up, shorter than you. One swift kick to the mook and they’re gone.

Both of them.

So you tell Anathema. Of course you do. Hey, so, that vigilante, whatever their name is? Kind of a loose cannon, right? And you know you’re not one to talk, of course not. Because their forms are more controlled and you’re pretty sure you saw them throw someone out a window once, stalk them down the sidewalk. Was that them or someone else?

But Anathema waves you off. “She’s really lovely,” they say, full smile. “Really funny. Just try talking to her.”

Try, as if you hadn’t for weeks. Linger on the edges of her stomping grounds to even get a glimpse. Familiarity in the way she stands, back straight, arms crossed. Seen her before. You’re sure. Like there’s little bits of the puzzle you’re still not seeing.

Spread the photos out on the desk. Carefully laid out, put against the string. Time and dates and your head hurts. It does. Only so many circles to go around in, only so many times you can cut corners, step over. Side, step.

There’s laughter in the break room. Mask still on, still that slip of skin and heavy bandages. But head tilted back, shaking, as Anathema describes something you did, maybe. Hood. Sentinel. Pointing at newspaper clippings, old stories, old times.

“Wait, wait, so when did this happen?”

“A year ago, I think? Lemme check the date.” Pause, as Anathema tips the paper up, trying to find the scribble at the bottom in Hood’s handwriting. Everything meticulously recorded.

But you notice it. How she hold the edge. Anathema was talking and Steel had his back turned, but she leans in. Head tilted, thumb dragging, strange reaction. But she pulls back once Anathema looks up, like nothing had happened at all. Rattles off information, more laughter. Time moves on.

Later, much later, you’re here again. Break room, in front of the fridge. Clippings. All of them. Sweep them off with your hands and lay them out. Find the one they were staring at — ah, yes — there it is. The one they’d been staring at. Nothing completely out of the ordinary. Post-win, big smiles all around. Look at the edges now, trying to see what she saw.

Nothing but a crowd. People standing around. You’re always jumping ahead, you remember your mother saying so. There’s not a single damn thing out of the ordinary, and really? Could you tell if it was her? You’ve never even seen her face.

Lean back. Was this a ploy? Make you question? Fold the clipping up. You’re going to hold onto it anyway. Search through others for one with Hood. Them too. Can’t stop the way your mind jumps, trying to work out, find the real. Remember how she held the page. Looked up. Maybe you were just a fool.

You’re a good actor. Almost as good as her.


	56. good ol' days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov. sidestep days.

Back against the wall. Cover slowly caving in. Out numbered a solid ten to one. All the kind of odds you love. And it’s such a thrill in your blood, to look over your shoulder, fire a shot of solid concentrated electricity, and duck back. Drop them one by one.

Except there’s a grunt at your ear, and you tap the piece. “You good, Sidestep?”

_“Just peachy, liebling. Can’t imagine anything better.”_

You bark out a laugh, and watch from across the room, as Logan fires a shot, catching one of the guards in chest. Shout, of victory, then before she dives under cover. One more shot, and she’s not that far from where you were now.

Roll of her head across to you, and you see bullets fly past her head. Pulls her mask up, and you’re sure if this wasn’t a life threatening situation, then maybe that look would’ve ended you alone. “Been working on that a while, huh?”

Rip her mask back down. _“Charge, if we make it out of this alive—”_

“Yeah, babe?”

 _“I’m kicking your ass into next week.”_ And she’s up, moving. Slipping between those who had pulled too close, and wrestles a gun from the nearest guard.

Leaping over your cover, you’re next. Directed lightning, slap one guy in the chest. Watch him fly back, collecting another in his way. “Didn’t know you invented time travel, carino, but I look forward to it.”

And you bump into each other. Quick step, pull her out the way. Arm rests on your shoulder, and she fires a little too close to your ear. Logan’s voice follows, as she clocks the nearest one, until the both of you aim at the last man standing. Watch how they drop to their knees, arms in the air.

“Honey?”

“Mmm?” Look out the corner of your eye. Can’t make out her face from the mask, but she’s turned towards you once more.

“Can I suggest that we never come here again? Like, ever?”

You laugh out loud, and smack the guard around the back of their head, rendering them unconscious. “Read my mind, sunshine.”


	57. one, two, three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov. sidestep days.

Arms folded over your chest. Brow raised, and you’re ready. On standby. If only because you know this will not end well, and quite frankly, the way that Chen seemed to be staring actually was scaring you a little.

“Logan, if you wanna tap out, now is the time.”

If anything, that only served to get a glare sent your way. “Butt out, Ortega.” Flicking her head back, hair following with a _fwip_.

Oh well. You tried. This was out of your hands as Marshal. If you had to write this off officially later, then that was on Chen.

And she puts her elbow on the table between the two of them first, hand flexing. Grinning in a way that has you sigh. Shoot a quick look to Chen, willing that maybe he would be the brains of this situation. Back out. Be the sensible one.

His response is cracking his knuckles, and elbow on the table, too. Grip on her hand seems to have Logan wince, just a little, and “okay… go!” You tried.

 

Even as her hand seemed to bounce on the table, before she grunts out an 'again!' arm up, ready. Smack, _again_.


	58. reconnect, again, again, again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pre-rebirth

You hate the night shift.

You hate how the air conditioner sits on low, a hum filling the air. Can’t keep warm, wrap your coat around you tighter. You hate how the monitors are the only light available, spread across the wall. Stuck watching the scientists muddle around.

You hate how fucking boring this shit is.

Kicking your feet up on the desk, hands behind your head. Trying to find anything that looked remotely off. Not that it ever did. No point in you even being here, with how smoothly everything ran. After all, you’re pretty sure they shoot people for not doing the right thing.

Whatever. Eyes fall to the side, biggest screen just to the left. Recently installed. Lone person sitting in the middle of a room, strapped to the chair. Facing the other way. Small miracles.

Don’t think you could honestly handle one of those things staring at you all damn day. Especially _that_ one. That one was all kinds of fucked up. Apparently knocked over four different security guards in the last few weeks alone.

You hated this shift, honestly. Hated how you had to keep an eye on that thing the most. Precious resource or some shit that they filled out on the paperwork. Dead guards were chump change, and you wouldn’t be next. No, sir. Pay was too good just to roll over for some chained up android.

Look over at cameras twelve to twenty again, before turning back. Nothing different. What did they expect, really? With how many bolts and equipment was hooked up to that thing, there was no way something was going to happen now.

Keep watching. Can’t look away. Huh, weird. Turn the dial on the desk, trying to get the static to disappear. Why was there static? Top of the line, right? Supposed to be. But with each click it gets a little heavier. Even as you roll back.

Roll back, roll back, roll back. Get it together. Screen seems to work again, when you blink three times. Fourth blink, and,

“Hey, Warner, you need to check this out.”

Your voice doesn’t sound like it’s coming from you, disconnected, old phone line. Your mother’s home, two day drive from the big city. But you hadn’t thought about her in years, and Warner wakes with a grumble.

“Why’s the bitch turned around?”

And it’s not just you, oh no. Facing the camera now, head clamped back against the chair. But that thing was staring straight at you, fuzzy and out of perspective. Face blank, no movement.

Warner gets to the microphone first, calling it in. Did someone go in when you weren’t looking? Hand to your head, and you’re sweating? Why? It’s too cold in the room, coat on the back of your chair. You don’t remember that. Heavy in your hands when you reach for it.

(oh god oh no please let me go it’s so dark and heavy and please, i’m so sorry mum)

Stuck. Like your head can’t move. Keep your eyes on the prize, losing yourself in how the thing, person, woman, continues to stare. Slow split of a grin across their face. Static hums, again, Warner smacking at the microphone.

“Fucking thing isn’t working. Hey, Drew, you alright?”

You can see your face in the monitors. How they all blink out, hand dragging across the console. Flicker of light and she had turned around, she was that way the whole time. But you, it’s only you. Something fills your nose, burning, you don’t know what.

Everything lights back up, when you grab the back of Warner’s head. Bring it down on the console, and it’s your face. Her. She’s here. Smiling with your face. Those big black eyes staring back, and you scrabble, scream, pull at your hair,

(connection lost)


	59. walk through the woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> puppet pov.

You’re not really here.

Never really were.

It’s quiet and you’re floating and there’s gaps, just here, between your fingers. Where water falls through, sand, time. Easy to lose track, when everything is dark, and you look to the sky, finding nothing. Seeing nothing.

Are your eyes even open? That’s the question you don’t want to ask, as it means you go to open your mouth, but there’s never any noise. Maybe a rush of blood. Water. Sand. Time.

Grass? Sharper in shape, familiar. You remember this sensation, don’t you. Barefoot, stains on jeans. Feel it your elbows, itchy, can’t scratch. Stuck again. Not meant to be here.

Weird to think that this comes in motions. In waves. Where the silence stretches and you just exist, until you remember water, grass, watching the sky.

Look to the sky? Dark. Heavy. Wave your hand in front and oh! Since when could you do that? Again. Third time’s the charm. Keep it going until your arms are sore and the world goes horizontal.

Still awake. Not here. Floating along and wanting to raise your arms up again. It’s a jolt, of life, that you hadn’t thought possible. The resignation was heavy, holding you back. Keeping you _here_ , hidden.

You have to blame someone else, because it’s sticky as you push yourself up. Try and fight and muster that effort into the dark. See the how the dark bleeds red, and you count yourself lucky, that you were never here. That you never faded entirely.

Sand? Time? A rush around your ankles, you’re up again, can’t keep track now. There had been a rhythm, but it’s shattered pieces in front now. When did a light shine once more? You need. You need to _wake up_.

One foot in front of the other. Sludge around your ankles, water gone. Are you even walking along the ground? Or is it the sky? At the threshold of this reality, where you can see your legs, detached and awkward, and keep on. 

Blink. Force your eyes open. Wake up! Wake up! Everything is red.

Fractal, corner of your eyes, you witness the wake. A crash that you can’t hear, cascade of light cutting through, blowing away everything. You. Only ever you.

Count them. Twelve. _Twelve_. Shots of light that hit the ground with colours you don’t remember, moving the grass, the sand. The water. Like a meteor shower, right here, inside you. Mind’s eye, the stark waves of it all breaking you up. Resetting you in so many ways, you don’t know if you’d be able to understand.

Are you really here for this? You never were before. One foot in front of the other. Out of the dark, the red. Can’t stop the smile, as you watch lucky number thirteen strike in front of you, dead centre.

You were never supposed to be here, after all. But the pieces move, and you embrace the shot, the heat, the grin.


	60. who really wears the pants

“When you said pick up—”

“—I crashed through two ceilings don’t—”

“—I thought you meant like ‘hey, Rosie, I’m down for a drink’—”

“—I’m sorry I interrupted your soaps—”

“—Not ‘oh by the way Rosie I have the entire LDPD on my ass because’—”

“— _I’m sorry, Jesus fucking Christ, oh my god_ —”

“—Don’t you turn the modulator on me I swear to fucking—“

“—Wait, McDonalds.”

“… didn’t you already eat?”

“You calling me fat?”

“No, I’m asking if you already ate, _Jesus_. Usual?”

“Duh.”

“And don’t talk from the back again, we don’t need anymore attention.”

“You got it, boss.”

“Damn straight I do.”


	61. it doesn't stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov.

It’s slow. Everything is slow and sludge. Around your ankles. Why are you on the ground? Blink a few times, through the light that kicks behind your lids, nine points, dead ahead. No, you’re up, hands in front of your face. Voices push through, coming in hot.

Turn to look over your shoulder, and dark. Heavy. Like the air can’t leave your lungs, you want to breathe. Do you? Static that breaks down and eats at you, crawls up the walls.

You won. That’s what it tells you. Ended the reign. So you ask: reign of who? There is no person here, just a mask, hands in front. Cuffed? Would those simply be enough? But you’re at one end of the hallway, them at the other, guards either side.

(…)

There are no windows here. Tiles and the dark, the static, bleeding down the walls and around you. Hand on your shoulder.

Can’t turn now. Only watch how the guards walk, crooked, coming out at awkward angles. Like they’re not all there, not really, just puppets. Part of the show. Something laps at your knee, higher now, keeping you right there.

It’s for you, no one else.

(please let me out oh god please i’m so sorry help me please)

Crawling now. Towards you. Arms twisted back and you feel sick. You want out. No windows. No doors. Can’t move your arms. It’s just you. Only ever been you.

No breaking free. Watch the lights go out, and are you screaming? Is that you? Flicker, red. Red and dripping and there’s something on your face. Don’t look up. Don’t look up don’t look up don’t look up.

(Keep Your Eyes On Me. just on ME. only us, NO ONE else.)

Gloved hand. You face. Oh god, touching your face. Smear across your cheek and there is death here. No more heroes. Never was meant to be, anyway.

Watch your face reflected back on that fateful mirror. Cut apart and pushed back together, as you try to look in, find the real. Was this fake? You’re screaming. You haven’t, can’t, stop.

Not when the light goes on, underneath the mirror. When it’s _her_ , always has been her. Dark eyes and pulled apart face and—

you wake. You wake and throw the sheets, tumble to the ground.

“Danny?” mumble from above, but the voice, Her voice, sticks to you. Holds you to the ground, and you have to blink at your hands. Seeing red.

Another mumble, distinct, low, (dead, he died, he did, i swear). “Wha’sup?” Ricardo breathes, no, he’s real, he’s here.

You need to. You need to get up. You can do this. One foot in front of the other, and push. Gravity doesn’t agree with you, not today. Wobble on your feet, and turn, apology in hand. “Sorry, just a nightmare—”

 

Did you ever stop screaming, really? Cannot see past the red, the fire, the eyes. Sear into your soul, and you can’t wake.

(this is the end. daniel daniel danny i’m so sorry forgive me please)


	62. have you ever seen the real him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. chargestep.

First smile, you think, the real one. No longer hidden behind layers and flash photography and the delicate amount of concealer. His face is buggered and bruised but you’re watching him as he affixes the sling, laughing at a joke, and Ricardo isn’t looking at you.

But you’re always staring at him. Solar flare, corner of your eye. Can’t blink it away, because you’re aware. Never not. The layer of static like a blanket in cooler nights, bring yourself back now, Logan, don’t think about that now. Feel his hands linger on your shoulders, your arm, turn your eyes away.

Ricardo is soft now. Head thrown back, smile whole and rich. Anathema is holding a cloth to their nose and Steel keeps to the side, but it’s. Warm. Slowly close your eyes, open once more. Fingers press into your elbow.

“You alright?” Voice low, conversation moving on. You almost want to pull the mask back on, keep away again.

His face is close. Work out all the lines that make his face _his_. There wouldn’t be another one like him. “Yeah… thanks.”

“Any time.” Ricardo means it, in ways you don’t want to realise. Borrowed time, except the smile that fills your face doesn’t reflect that. Mirrored back.

For now, this was all. You didn't want to test the waters. _Maybe_. No, you couldn't. When he settles back into a chair, you just. Huh. You're haunted by his touch.


	63. it'll be over soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov. chargestep.

You can’t save her.

Not when she’s gasping for breath, holding one hand to her throat, another to her side. And she has the audacity to bare her teeth at you, too, legs pushing out, distance put between the two of you. But it’s you, _you_ , who found her. Followed the way she had fallen, impact imminent.

Another hiss, as Logan goes to move again. You want to stop her. What for, you’re not sure. Not anymore. It’s been far too many months, of grasping at shadows, to know where your head, heart, soul, lay.

“Stop.” A whisper, from somewhere behind you. Certainly sounded like you.

But that earns you some ire, as she looks up at you again. “Might have to be a bit specific there. Don’t have much time.”

“Let me help you.”

“No.”

“Don’t be stubborn, Logan.”

She turns her head up towards you then, eyes out of focus. Seeing something you don’t. Shift of her hands and the pressure must be tighter, but she swallows loudly. “It’s not ‘Logan’, it’s—” 

Cut her off, before she can finish her sentence. Protest. “You’re not Heartbreak.”

“Haven’t you read the headlines?” And she extends a hand out wide. “Heartbreak, in the flesh.”

You can see the fractures in her suit, where you suppose it should be locking in, compressing, but just couldn’t quite. Can’t stop yourself from reaching out, fingers delicate around her wrist. Thumb and forefinger. Feel the pump of a heartbeat, right there.

“You’re still alive.”

“Maybe.”

“Never thought you to be this fatalistic.”

A smile then, grimace. “You never even knew the real me.”


	64. the small moments count the most

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov. chargestep.

And there's a jolt, back, where you have to round out to avoid the crowds. Fingers flex and you turn to look over your shoulder, trying to find what happened. Why you stopped.

Perhaps, you should have expected this. But maybe nothing could've. Shuffle a little more, out the way, smiling in apology to those who pass by, disgruntled, unamused. All those looks meant nothing to you, after all, when you lay eyes on how Logan stands now, hand against the glass. Eyes wide, watching how a-

Toy train, makes its way through a city, covered in snow and bright lights. There's a smile on her face, wide, bright. A thousand watts, directed at you. Tilts her head to the side now, fingers leaving prints on the glass, but her eyes slide shut, and there's laughter, her.


	65. quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov. flystep.

The door buzzes, and you're in. Calling, Logan, you there? Low lights, soft song filtering through. You can't place it, but it's something you had heard before, long ago. You're sure of it, as you follow the way your feet carry you. And you find the source of the music, just past through the bedroom door. Ajar, look in.

You'd be a fool to think she was asleep. But she's got an arm around one of her dogs, the other two pressed against her back and legs. Keeping her there, in a way that made her breathe a little easier. You see a hand shoot up, an idle wave, only to drop, pat at one of the dogs. All of them. Trying to squeeze out but it's. Impossible, and she doesn't seem to mind


	66. the tender touch means the most

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

To be fair, neither of you had ultimately expected to agree. A half jab, as she'd rolled her shoulders and you could feel the ache, how it had been broadcasted far too loud. Snapped it up, fresh in your mind, own muscles aching in sympathy. But there was too much, bend and flow under the pressures of your mind and the way her own teased at your ankles, swimming.

So, the ribbing turned Argent, upright, before graciously allowing a sweep of her hair, off her shoulder. Still the narrowed eyes and that tentative spike of fear, concern, spikes pushing back. You remember every other time, reach out, ready to. There is no resistance, as your fingers press in along her shoulders. As you follow the line of her spine down. Soft and malleable under your hands, the touch letting you pull at the tendrils of pain now. Palm pushed in, deep, finding a knot, as your mind works ahead.

Argent is closed eyes and slow breathing. Aware of what your mind was doing, but there's relief, a slow sunrise, just there. She... was letting you in, further, shielding herself but the pain laid bare. That was fine, as you are fingers dragging down the muscles of her back, working in. You could work with that.


	67. sunrise over the heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov. chargeflystep.

The song on the radio is corny and upbeat, but you spin her around. Watch how she laughs, bright, loud, bumps almost right into Ricardo. Hands on hips, quick apology, but he abandons the pancakes in favour of an “oh, my turn?”

Takes you by the hand, leaving breakfast at the mercy of Logan. Dips you low, soft press of lips and fingers digging into your side, tickling you. If you do jump up a good foot, Ricardo doesn’t comment. Just laughs, and laughs, pulling you down. To him.

It’s easy enough for the two of you to elbow her out the way of breakfast. Quick movements, eggs, bacon, pancakes piled up, Logan pulling juice out of the fridge. Setting the counter, and you can see her out the corner of your eye. Pushing the door closed with her hip, sliding past. Lips against your shoulder, continuing on.

Steady stream of consciousness, and the stove is off. Pushing plates aside, stacking food. Ricardo smacks Logan’s hand from taking the stack for herself, and you steal bacon off his plate. Easy exchange. But the room is warm, the sun is bright, and the radio crackles to life with something bouncy, filling in the gaps of conversation.


	68. old memory, old life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov. chargestep.

“ _What are you doing with that?_ ”

_She turns, looking at you now. Until her eyes slide shut, smile growing wider. Softer. Hand raised to keep the sun from her eyes._

_“Nothing.” Your voice is tinny. Far away. “I’m just walking.”_

_“‘Just walking’. Uh huh, okay.” Tone gives away she doesn’t believe you, but there’s a nudge. You wobble, indulging her that she had almost pushed you over._

_“Walking behind_ you _, is that a crime?”_

_“Maybe. Looks like you’re stalking me.”_

_Laughter now, both of you. “You wish.”_

_A hum, and she’s staring at you. Straight ahead. Curl of lips and she reaches, pushes the camera out of the way. Falls to the side, but there are murmurs. Just the two of you. No one else._

Click. Pause, there. Camera facing the ground. Run your hands over your face, push back from the desk. Last living records that she wasn’t a figment of your imagination. You wonder if Logan would be mad, that you still had something of her.

You realise, with some pull of strings, she wouldn’t have a say in the matter. Not anymore. Shrink the video down, shuffle papers. Work through what Hood left you. Had to, after all. Meant you could do something else right? Other than.

Other than clicking play, once again.


	69. play the song, bittersweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

Trance. Dance. What's the word?

Follow the steps. Left, right, keep on top, don't let go. What happens if it stops? You don't want to know, don't let them find out. Them? You. Keep the rhythm, stick to it, kid. They say it all the time. Stick with it, _kid_.

You are the kid. His. Theirs. Metal bit in your mouth and the song plays. Soft and sweet. Monsters at bay. You. They can't afford to let you out. Fear you, don't they? Should they? Left foot, right foot. Pirouette. Stretch and pull and again. Again again again. Don't let the music win.

It's just a song. It's just you. Background noise, tables, chairs. Filtered screens that flicker, show _you_. Remember them well. Bury the memory. Sing for it, Logan. You can do it.

Only you. Touch their minds, let them hear. Watch how they scream and scrabble and pull, stop it, Nu, stop it. Let us go. We never meant you harm. We promise you. _We don't want to hear this song._

But it's you. A harmless whisper, that you sing. Close your eyes, and hear the music, soft, light. You.


	70. take notes, ladies and gents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mortum pov.

Out the corner of your eye, you watch her fiddle. Smacking a pen around in a circle, stop, go again. No telling what she was thinking, as your eyes flick up quickly, find the dampners still in place. Was it awful to think of small blessings in that moment. Until there's a groan, and you watch how her hands dig into her hair, pulling at the ends.

"Mon amie, what's the problem?" Careful now. Identity out, and there was a distinct difference between Logan and Evan. Hard to believe that she had been playing a part, with how real it was. You thought it was, anyway.

But her fingers are tangled in ties, yanking at the ends. Another groan, and you're up, walking over. Hands out, fingers spread, trying to appear open. And you can see the problem, closer now. The braids were caught, tangled, and she couldn't get the ties out. You hadn't considered fine motor movements to be hard for her, with everything else, but Logan stills as you work them out, fingers quickly working through the hair to let it fall around her head.

A small murmur of thanks, and she means it. "You're welcome," you mumble, watching how she flexes her fingers now. Make a note, file it away. Set the ties in her hands. Another interesting result.


	71. her eyes hide secrets you will never see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov. nsfw. flystep.

Kiss along her skin, feel her press up into you. Looking over her shoulder, hand curled in her hair. Watching you, with those eyes that seem to catch wrong in the light. Biting her lip, but part, gasp, as you kiss again. Hands on her hips, arch yourself. Dips and curves and you press in. Watch her tense, tighten. Ease. Smile, like she knew all the little secrets in the world.

Nails. Teeth. You are bruised and battered but your skin is soft under her touch. There is no harm here, even if you have to blink away the dark. _Her eyes_. You can’t look away. Need to. Lip drawn between a bite, and you can’t pull away. Watch the little circles, shift and pull and they’re holding you. Here. Can’t stop. Turn. hold. Like minute changes of machine, locking in place. Caught in a web.

(what does she see that you don’t)

Her ankles hook behind your neck. Close. Far too close. Her fingers hold you there, pinch your cheeks, draw you in. A pull at your lip, tongue dragging up your cheek. You move. Of course you do. Hand in your hair, tilt you back, teeth at your neck. Moans against your skin as you push into her. Fuck her. How her legs are shaking, trying to keep you here. Against her. _With_ her. Swallow her groans, watch her eyes roll shut.


	72. a sniffle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> julia pov. twintega.

You’re. Tired. And your throat hurts and hands ache. Look at the ports and see the red, raw skin. Want to itch. Shouldn’t. Got to sneeze instead. And you’re pulling the blankets tighter around you now, legs up on the pillows. You just can’t get comfortable. Nothing on tv.

“Ricardo!” You sing, cough, splutter. “Get your ass in here!”

And there’s some swearing from the other room. Maybe a drag of chair over the ground, and he stumbles into the room, frowning. Grumbling. “What do you want _now_?”

Perhaps it’s just the idea of you brother, younger by three minutes, standing before you, clearly having had your mother knock some sense into him, forced to take care of you. But you hold out the cloth, now sufficiently not cool, and pout. “Please?”

“You’re an ass. You know that, right?”

“I love you, too!”


	73. hush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov.

And you trace her. The lines. Solid and strong, hairs under the tips of your fingers meeting to rise. The hue takes your breath away, glow against your chest. Reminiscent of her armour then, you think, and remember the beat of red. Orange. Pink, her lips, that you kiss.


	74. future incomplete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

When you wretch the door open, for one whole you think _this is it_. Visor adjusting to the inky black of the room, feet taking you in a little further. It’s when you’re five steps in that the lights power on.

Blocks, starting from the back. Far on your peripherals but you have to keep walking. Keep moving. Don’t focus on the walls closing in. How those goddamn coffins glow, boxing you in in ways you haven’t dreamt of since. _Since_?

A code. That’s all you were. Under your feet there’s strips, guiding you, blue against the shadows. Move on, Logan, move on. Don’t see the faces, stare straight ahead. It’s only you. Only ever you. Nothing more, nothing less. The bits and pieces of lives you don’t remember, hemmed together in great big cases, show and tell.

Could you remember that bullet hole? The burns? Fire licking at your skin and knives finding the gap between your ribs and oh, no, pull away. Don’t stare. They’ll just stare back, and it’s the void.

(it’s you, us, me me _me_ )

Screens span the walls. They had updated the place since you were last here. Every little detail about you, Logan, 1064-N. Nu. Thirteen out of twenty-four, nothing more. You are the step by step procedures, the hardwired and imperfect.

You are the one, here, now, aiming a bullet right between those screens, watching them crack and fracture, and fall. Catharsis would never be possible for you, you know this, but there are devices pulled into these same computers, ripping your life from their hands. Switches, life support, deactivated.

One by one. The lights go out. Commit this to memory, Logan. Remember this. Only this.


	75. you'll regret that, one day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> other pov.

You didn't know what to expect, when the meeting had been called. Harried voices and phonecalls, far too many emails bouncing back and forth. But you're packed in now, sitting in a chair too small, brushing elbows with Phil, from accounting.

What in the world was _he_ doing here?

So you pull out the pen, ready the recorder. Listen to the murmurs and the tension, waiting for. What?

You don't know what to expect. Of course you don't. If you knew, you might've said no. Asked if there was food provided, free, of course.

Keep a hand on your knee, tapping the pen idly with the other. Look around. Notice the bigwigs, the suits. The thousand yard stare. That was new. Unfamiliar. You just dealt with logistics and marketing.

You don't know why you were even here.

And a hush falls, President Neil standing at the front. Big smile, no flash photography. Was that sweat beading on his forehead, or was it your imagination? Like a glare, bouncing off, have to squint. Watch as a single file forms behind him, sharp turn, and face. Nothing out of the ordinary, aside from the eerie eyes. The fact that they weren't breathing.

His speech was short, new woman now. Smiled like it was you, the most important person in the room. You are torn between elation and suspicion, in that moment, when her eyes fall on you, pass over. Touching on everyone, as she continues to talk. Light words and honeyed tone and you work in a business that deals in falsifying the truth. Little white lies.

It was your language, and yet your tongue grew heavy in your mouth, like you weren't so sure anymore. That you couldn't stop staring, past her, at those faces. Six of them, couldn't have been older than twenty. You don't know. You feel the walls start to close in.

Blink, as there's a hand shooting up next to you. Phil, conspiracy theorist. Tin hat, accountant. White picket fence, three kids. What did he have to lose, with the way he speaks, voice curling with his mouth. A lie. He was calling this a lie.

You don't know what to expect when she pulls a gun. When the woman aims it, without a backwards glance. A single shot, through the leg of a girl, to her right. Barely registers, but the _bang_ has the room gasp, hush. Silence.

"Have I made my point? This is the future."

Lower yourself in your chair, pull your arm from Phil. Watch how he wilts then, under the pressure. Under the pressure, left eye. Rub at it, watch the way the walls bleed black and red, and then it's gone.


	76. five, four, threetwo. one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep. chargestep pov. prompt: things you said with no space between us

You are. Five centimetres. Four, three. Two.

 _One_. You move and your lips would brush. Somehow, you are not afraid of that fact, when your eyes drop and you’re. Still, fingers curled into the material of his suit. Muscles tensing under your touch.

Do you remember how to breathe, even? Lose yourself in dark brown eyes, honeyed and soft and looking at you. Ricardo is no longer hard angles and high cut cheeks, when you see the flush under his skin. You see the swell, thin lines, winding scars and dipped lip.

You are. “See something you like?” Deflecting, as this was too real, too close. Did that centimetre exist, or was it simply your mind?

Mind, and the way you brush his lips. 

“Yes.” Ricardo is too honest for his own good. The chink in your armour, finding all the little gaps you had never realised to exist. Open and bare, feel the hand slide across your hip.

Tomorrow, the centimetre would increase. Two, three, four. _Five_. It would be a space, and you would be able to breathe. But tonight you are whispering in the curve of his neck, all the things you cannot say. 

Not when you can see his eyes, brilliant and deep. Only ever you, and the distance that did not exist. 


	77. one day i'll hate you more than myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov. prompt: things you said on the phone at 4 am

“I’m sorry.”

“…”

“I never meant for this to happen.”

“…”

“I wish you were here.”

“…”

“Why did this happen?”

“…”

“I’m _so_ fucking sorry. I’m so-”

“- _your call could not be connected.”_

“…”

“…”

“I want to forget you.”


	78. you will not forgive me today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. prompt: things you said on the phone at 4 am

You know their number by heart. Thumb moving, muscle memory. Shouldn’t be hitting green, call, please. Pick up. Think of me.

Three rings, and you hear the silence. Soft breaths, to know that he was alive, still there, other side. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, and it’s weak and cheap but you mean it. “I’m sorry.”

A hitch. Reaction. It’s what you want, right? To draw all the little bits out. To remember that you’re still here, and he’s over there. 

Swallow. No sign of telling you to stop. “I meant to tell you sooner.” 

Last week. Month. Year. Fresh out the Farm, wide-eyed and afraid. Seven years ago. Before that first kiss. When things got too fucked up and too real and you’re trying to. Blink. Breathe. Don’t cry now.

You haven’t let yourself before.

“I need you to understand. Why I couldn’t. Ever.

“I was so afraid, Ricardo.” 

You hear a sigh. As strained as you were. Open your mouth, but you cannot speak. Words caught in your throat. There was a speech, plays out behind your eyelids. Gone when you blink once, twice.

“Ricardo… you have to-”

“Don’t call me again, Logan, _please_.”


	79. fly away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. prompt: The way you said “I love you”… in a way I can't return

There is no right way to do this. No guide, no text. Memory files and tank induced knowledge did not give you everything.

Sometimes you wish it had.

When you see him there, especially. Before you. Watery smile and hand around your wrist, sharp little pinpricks of static finding your pulse when his fingers flex. There’s no longer that blanket you can lean into, wrap yourself in. It’s afraid of you, a buzz that wards you off.

You have to tell yourself: there is no right way, there never was going to be. Not even as the words catch in Ricardo, Ortega, _Charge’s_ throat. That he’s not. That he is. Masks fracture and splinter and the smile is watery but the eyes are tight. His nose crinkles and his fingers just don’t let go.

So you bite your lip. Pulling free would activate the vice, and you can’t have that. What was the puzzle here? What was the right answer? You needed time, but the shapes aren’t fitting together. Circle in a square hole. Charge, Ortega, _Ricardo_. Too much of him broken up and shoved together and these little faces are.

Wrong.

“I _can’t_ love you.” No right way, no right way.

Hear the way he sucks in air, too fast, too tight. Blank. Reactive. Who was he? You can’t fit the pieces together, figure out just who you were facing now. 

So you break the contact, mask sliding back in place. Slow glow of the screen lighting up, and it’s not clear. Blurred. Pull your hand back and he lets you go. The first and only time, you know, that you will be given a head start. There are sirens in the distance and pushes of other minds against yours.

But that’s the face of Marshal Charge. Ricardo Ortega. Just, Charge, nothing else. Hard lines and pursed lips and,

 **Heartbreak**. 


	80. river styx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. prompt: The way you said “I love you”… as an apology

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Fingers curl into your cape. Yours? His? Don’t dare chance a look, even as you feel the weight of his grasp on the front of your suit. Holding you now.

He should. Let you go. Just one swift movement, and you would go. Gone. Poof. No more.

But Daniel is so sure, so steady. Not a waver on his face, even as his eyes tighten at the edges. This wasn’t Herald, golden boy. Maybe this was the real him, underneath it all.

The one who **burned**. 

“I will always love you.” Pressure against his wrist. Do it. Coward. Sweetheart. _Herald_. He could do it. Maybe you could even throw in some forgiveness, just for good luck. Or he could. 

Where were the lines now? Kicked in the sand. This was the swan song, the goodbye. You salute, I’ll be seeing you.

_Safe journeys._


	81. never thought you would make it here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov. chargestep. prompt: The way you said “I love you”… too quick, mumbled into your scarf

You don’t remember the last time it was this cold in the city. Even the rains were still warm and humid but. Feel her fingers squeeze yours, as you push through crowds. It’s loud, and you can only imagine what it’s like up there. In her head.

Logan meets your eye when you look over your shoulder. No tightness, just an easy smile. Push her glasses up higher, and when she tilts her head to the side, you can see the quick flicks. Watching. Can’t fool you.

Pulling into a store, you don’t really register what it is. But there’s little trains on tracks above you, and it’s. An arm around her shoulder, as a saleswoman approaches. Smiles and “well, aren’t you two a lovely couple? Looking for something for each other this year?”

There’s doilies and fine silverware and you remember this old gig. Play to be a couple, in love, buying furniture. Imaging a house and a white picket fence and. _Pretending_ that the doors on the fridge mattered. Logan is smiling and asking questions and there’s an elbow in your side about sheet sets. Just browsing.

And you whisper aside, what couples buy pans for Christmas? Ones who want to break up in five minutes? She laughs, loud, thanks the woman and wanders ahead. You lose her somewhere in the decorations, but that was alright.

Gave you time. To think. About. How this wasn’t pretend anymore, was it?

So you walk through rows of plate settings and politely nod at other people and find her there. Under a tree. A look on her face you can’t quite place. Glasses tucked into her jacket and a hand running through her hair and.

You’re closer. Hand lingering over her elbow, and she’s. Looking up at you with that look again. The one you just can’t quite place. Before her scarf is pulled up, covering her mouth, and Logan has to cough. 

Thumb across her cheeks, and it takes a lot not to comment on the flush of her skin. But she leans up to meet your kiss, and that was enough.


	82. curve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. chargestep.

And you're walking, hand in hand. Ironic in a way, as you trace your thumb over the harsh rim of metal. You know these hands, what they're capable of. Seen it yourself. And yet they turn then, to smile at you. Everything is touched in gold, sunshot, through the heart.

World drowns out, and their fingers flex. You are this moment, only, nothing else. Could you imagine anything beyond the tilt of their smile and the curve of their eyes, as they only see you? Was there a place beyond the static of their mind, where you might've seen pavement and windows and can you see it? Do you want to?

No, you don't. Not when your hand is tilted towards their lips, sunlight reflecting off the dip of silver, just there. Left hand. For you. Only you.


	83. sensitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov. flystep. nsfw

You move your hips, snap forward. Rhythmic, listening to how she chants your name at your ear. How her nails trail over your shoulders, digging in. Holding you, right there, as you press your forehead against hers.

And then her hands trail south. Over your spine, follow each little ridge and bump and you inhale, so deep. Can't stop, as you squeeze your eyes shut. Oh. _Just there._


	84. here, here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov. flystep.

You don't know how you had been talked into it. One too many swipes and dodges and something twinged in your back. Hadn't thought much of it, until Logan had swept her leg out, and you hadn't been able to move fast enough.

So now here you are, trying to think of the colour of your curtains, as she presses her hands over your shoulders. Asking, here, _here_ , like you're supposed to answer. But you can feel the gnawing pressure, as Logan’s hands draw closer.

Should you say something? Stop her from rolling the little device in her hand over your skin? How her fingers are leaving imprints and you bite down on your hand, as Logan touches. Press in. She don't even know. Maybe she does. You won’t ever know.


	85. charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

Flick of eyes, and you grin. Watch how he shoves a hand in his pocket, idle, to the side. For only a moment. Sixty seconds, clock it, to slide next to him.

Whilst it took a moment for Ricardo to notice you, before his lips twist into a smile, fingers brushing yours, you still turn into him. Makeup and prosthetics only covered so much. Careful of the flash photography and his voice lowers.

"Fancy meeting you here." A wink, icing on the cake. Can't help the grin that tugs at your lips.

"You looked bored," is your answer, to a question neither of you hear. You were close, but fingers curled into your dress. Professional distance?

Maybe, maybe not. Ricardo was getting closer now, leaning down just a touch. "You have something in mind, don't you?"

"No, never."

"Liar."

But he's grinning too, full, dimple in his right cheek. You could kiss him. I can't steal you away, can I? Don't know which of you say it, but it's a soft, no. Not today. Not right now. How much time left? Cameras slowly turning, and you find yourself reaching up, thumbing the edge of his collar.

When you walk away, you can hear the grumblings and sighs. A boom of laughter, clicks of cameras. You will see this tomorrow now doubt.


	86. reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov. chargeflystep.

“You want to _what_?”

There’s a grin on Ricardo’s face, that is slowly breaking down Logan’s walls, and you steal a fry off her plate. Another, when you’re sure she wasn’t looking. Settle back for the next round of Logan v Ricardo, resting your elbows on the counter.

“I was looking up…” A raise of brows, vague hand movement.

“‘Positions’?” If you didn’t know any better, you would say Logan almost sounded scandalised. Almost.

“—Yes, _obviously_ ,” and the way he emphasises the word makes it sound like it should’ve gone unsaid. “And I found this one where, like, you would—”

You’re not sure if you like the demonstration, with the hands and what you’re assuming was supposed to be legs. It looked remarkably uncomfortable, but you honestly weren’t sure if that was an arm or just. Ricardo’s finger bent funny.

Logan holds her hands up, brows damn near disappearing into her hair with how she’s focusing. “I’m flexible… but that’s just.” A slight roll of her head. “I’m not sure I can bend into that. Not anymore.”

But then there’s a grin from Ricardo turned towards you. “Oh, no, I mean for Danny to do the leg thing.”

At that, Logan looks over. Being hit with the smug grin and her sudden narrowing of eyes made you keenly aware of just how much food you’d taken off her plate. “What?”

He’s staring at you. Looking far too much like the cat that ate the canary. And you realise that you hate that comparison, when Logan snorts. “You’re in the middle.”

“What? No.” Nudge Logan’s plate away, try to lick the salt off your fingers without looking obvious.

“Yeah, you’ve got the most… _flexibility_.” Ricardo spreads his fingers as he says it, eyes off in the distance.

“And Logan can put her legs behind her head. Yeah, okay, _I’m_ the flexible one.”

A pause, as Logan tries to cover her grin with a cough, and Ricardo suddenly looks between the two of you. “You showed him that.”

“Of course. Neat, huh.” Wink at you, which you return with more emphasis than necessary, earning you a laugh and Logan leaning across. Hand extended to curl along your cheek, and you get close for a kiss as Ricardo interrupts with a—

“ _When_?”

Logan actually stops, turns, pouts. “Like a month ago. You were out.”

Deciding she was done, she kisses you, smiling into it, as Ricardo scoffs, hands in the air. “I can’t believe I wasn’t invited.”

“Sucks to be you.” Don’t know who mumbled it first, but you’re both laughing, and Ricardo grumbles.


	87. the warmest spot is between the two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. chargeflystep. nsfw.

“Wait, waitwaitwait—”

Hold your hand up, other one pressed down. Keeping Ricardo there on the bed, while stopping Daniel. And you’re frowning, you can feel it, as there’s a soft ‘what’s wrong’ and ‘are you okay’, words mingling. Not the concern you were looking for.

“What way am I supposed to face?”

And there’s a solid moment, of absolute silence, before Daniel laughs and Ricardo groans, covering his face with his hands. “Are you serious?”

Whip your head down towards Ricardo, and squeeze your thighs tighter over his waist. “Uh, _yes_? Obviously.”

This was a very important question and clearly he wasn’t understanding the importance of it, so you turn. Look up. Where Daniel was standing a little closer, arms crossed over his chest. You drop your eyes, half a second, then back up. Receive a wink, and you roll your eyes, but share the grin.

“Opinion, my good sir?”

“I don’t mind seeing your face,” answered with a half shrug, hand dropping to his cock now. “Whatever works.” Long strokes, loose and hand slick. Light flush high on his cheeks, but he’s smiling.

“That was _so_ not helpful, Danny.” Scoff, turn back. “What do you think?”

Ricardo looks over at you then, wiggling his hips further on the bed. Shift as he raises his legs up, heels on the edge. You have to take a moment, to register how close he was pushing against you now. “Can you even reach my—”

“From this angle? Yeah, I can.” Daniel runs his hands up Ricardo’s legs, catching just under his knees. “Might have to push you up a little though?”

A hum, and you can see Ricardo trying to work it out. “Might work better you staying how you are.”

No, now you’re really frowning, with a look between them once more. “You two are the _most_ unhelpful—” Cut you off, with how Daniel reaches around now, fingers running up your chest.

“Logan, relax.” At your breasts now. “Just don’t cramp again.”

And you throw him off, as Ricardo snorts. “Fuck you, Daniel—”

“—Anytime you want to—”

“—That was one time!”

“It _literally_ happens every time.” Offering a very unhelpful opinion, you smack Ricardo’s arm.

“And last time Daniel sucked your dick, you came in seconds!”

A flush, and it’s Daniel’s turn to snicker now, arms around you in a hug, leaning over you. “That was funny.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. It happened.” Throws his arms out to the side, defeat. “Like… twice.”

“Three times, babe, try again.”

There’s a moment, of quiet, before Ricardo wraps his arms around you, throwing you to the side with a “that’s it! Daniel!” And you have to laugh, as his fingers dig into your sides and Daniel kisses you with a grin.

Even as you insist, “wait, we did all that prep…!” and they’ve pinned you, leg up and around waist, hands all over, press of hips against yours. You’re still laughing, grinning, groaning, fingers in hair and a drag of “ _fuck me!_ ”

And your question goes unanswered, really, left to the wayside, as you feel teeth and lips and the words, right there. Corner of your mouth and buried into your neck. That was fine, maybe, kind of, yeah, definitely. Just say something in an hour. Two. Twelve. Next time, even as you feel your hip stiffen and you have to,

“Hang on, I think…”

“ _Again_?!”


	88. no gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

You are.

You _are_.

Six feet under, you’re sure. Strong strides through and they’re the waves. Ripples in the water and your feet are kicking in the river now. (open your eyes) Have to. Keep moving, keep going. Watch the scrabbling behind the glass and the way they follow you.

 **Blackout**. Are you doing that? Each step, each breath, and the world shrinks. Narrows. It is dark and it’s just you, the acid, red eyes. Stairs in front. Two at a time. No, wait, no no, that’s not here. That’s not now. Are you walking? Flex your fingers and feel the metal, cold, even through your glove.

They run at you, and then they don’t. You blink and they’re gone, on the floor. Six feet under. Them, not you.

After all, you just are. The turn of your head, trying to see through the dark. Can’t hear a thing. The night is cold and the gun is warm, and the labs ring hollow. Red.


	89. no masters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. spoilers.

_Where is he?_

Like gravel, running over their minds. Fingernails down the chalk boards. You shouldn’t know that sound, but their stomach turns and the bile rises and it’s them. Their mind. Don’t lean in, not too far. You can feel the drag at your wrists, and you press your foot down harder.

Clench your eyes at the crack, the scream. A plead, please, Heartbreak, Logan, Nu, _Nu,_ stop it, I’m sorry, **I’m so sorry.**

Where. Is. He.

Straps. Keeping you there, holding you down. You hate how they would hold you down. Who are you — always, who are _you._ Even as they cry and scream and the thrum at the edge of your eyes grows stronger, flick the mask back.

Reflection in their eyes. It’s you, isn’t it? Red rim, that holds around you. No. Okay. Yes. Push yourself in and they’re pleading, oh god, oh no, not like this.

You don’t want to ask again. So you dig. Fingers curled in. Upped their security since you were last here, as the mirrors hide much but not all. Especially when you raise your fist, watching how it cracks around your knuckles. Shatters and falls and you find the truth.

One more floor down. Gasps of air, last few pleads. But you’re already gone, hollow ring, smell of smoke. Echoes in your mind, and it’s _that song_.

Crackle over the speaker then, and you don’t stop in your tracks. Keep moving, keep going. Downstairs. Last room. Yours. Have to. Stop the music. One foot in front of the other, Logan, Nu, Heartbreak.

Who are you?

_“Nu… I’ll be waiting.”_


	90. time in between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov.

You meet the mat again, a _smack_ that resonates in the gym, and Ortega laughs. Loud, hands on hips. There might’ve been a moment, of considering to swing your legs out, collect him and pull him down with you. But you have to pull back, accept the hand. That wasn’t you.

No matter how many videos you had watched, it just wasn’t ever going to be you.

“Again?” Ortega lets go of your hand, slowly, and you were hunched, ready to be launched again.

So you ask, “five minutes?” if only so you can pull away, roll your shoulders. Let your feet off the ground for once, and find that place, three inches above.

Pull your legs up with you, crossed, safe. Can’t help the embarrassed smile, when Ortega raises a brow your way. A solid _huh_ leaving him, and he throws a bottle your way. Same thing, every time. Can feel yourself shift a little higher — no, the world just gets that _fraction_ lower. Look down at your hands. Burn in your cheeks.

No judgement here, but Ortega hits the ground with a thud, a groan, something about mats not being as soft as they used to be. But you’re still up here, fiddling with the lid. World of your own. Maybe he was right. Maybe you do exist on another plane.

Except it is just you and the air, and the way you distract yourself with a deep drink. Don’t want to follow that chain of thought for too long, so you count the seconds until three hundred. Let the bottle fall to the side, and you’re on your feet once more.

Ground unsteady, but you are a hand extended, that Ortega takes with a grin, familiar. You like that look on him, you realise, fists raised. It’s been a while since you’ve seen it.

Let alone it be aimed at you.


	91. together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> julia pov. twintega.

You shouldn’t have woken up yet. But the light burns at your eyelids and it _hurts_ , oh, so much. Where were you? What happened? Why does it hurt to breathe?

And there’s voices, all around you. Shapes you can’t quite make out and turn your head to the side. What? Who?

“Where…” is that your voice?

A rush now, from around you, calls of _she shouldn’t be awake yet_ , and you remember. The car. The screams? You? No, Ricardo. Next to you. Flex your fingers and you need to move. Push up. Where was he? _Where were you?_

“Ri—”

“Sedate her.”

Hands push you down. Come on, Julia, it’s okay. You’re okay.

“Where’s Ricardo?” you feel. Scratchy. Not with it. Too many shapes now, keeping you down.

Just repeat it. Over and over, until the world gets that little bit smaller, when you start to breathe a little easier. Mask over your mouth now, blinking too fast, watching the blurs disappear. Your head falls to the side, and,

 _Ricardo_. Breathing, no, machines working overtime. Too many people hurrying around him. Name caught in your throat, as you inhale, far too deep. Eyes rolling back. And you’re gone.

 

**See you on the other side, little brother.**


	92. the void stares back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. sidestep days. prompt from tumblr: kissing in the moonlight + relief

It’s too warm, and the room hums. Little pinpricks that sit at the edge of your mind, and you’re afraid to look out. Don’t want to see the Void staring back. So you’re huddled in the corner, knees to your chest, watching the machines work, his chest rise and fall.

You don’t know if you’re going to make it. The two of you have had close calls before, more than you could count on both hands. Maybe one foot. But Ricardo took the fucking _cake_ with the stunt he pulled. Gripped the fencing, and you remember. His scream. All the minds, lit up, lights on a switchboard. And then out, one hit, knockout. 

Press your forehead against your knees. Only in the last hour had the smell of burning hair left your nostrils, but there was still not so much as a twitch. Little box next to you just ticks away. More seconds. More minutes. Come on, Ricardo. The Void was close for both of you, and this honestly wasn’t the most ideal way to go.

Need to stretch. Move. Feel the burn in your shoulders, from how you’d been thrown, and you flatten yourself against the wall, twist your shoulders. Catch the moon, corner of your eyes. Reminding you of where you were, how small, how afraid. Never thought you’d feel something like this, but you’re too lost in the light now, thinking about anything else.

You miss the way Ricardo’s breath hitches, stutters, goes. Until there’s a groan, vaguely like your name, dragged out on all the wrong vowels. Leap before you look. Throw your arms around him. Knock whatever air had made it’s way in straight out, and his touch is light, but you’re.

Crying? Fingers that trace the lines of his face and you don’t remember when you started kissing him, but you don’t want to stop. Feather light, cheek, nose, forehead, temple. Whatever you can touch and find because _ohthankgodyoumadeitiwassoworrieddontdothattomeagain_. 

Do you even get a chance to breathe? 

“Logan, hey, come on, you know you can’t get rid of me that easy.” Even with a beaten smile, swollen, bruised, he’s still trying to charm you. Manoeuvre his way out. How his eyes quickly calculate and add up the damage you yourself have sustained. 

But you can’t let him, not yet. When you find his lips. When the tears don’t stop flowing. This wasn’t. Smart. Wise. Two steps outside and you would be swept up again. Ricardo winds his fingers in your hair, and the machine beeps too loud; you don’t break away. Void take you another day, because you made it through this night. And _he’s_ here with you.


	93. just another face in the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. prompt from tumblr: kissing in the snow + longing

Your knees hit the ground first. Solid. Shuddering. You fall forward, face first, cheek meeting the cold, cold snow, before you turn. Shift. Spread your arms out wide, feeling the creaks and groans of your suit, until it’s too far. No further than now.

Deep breath. Watch the mist form, shapeless and whole, until you wish you could leave with it. This was the end. Of what specifically you cannot say, but you want to slip. Fall. Sink into the snow and be gone by the time the sun rises.

But they won’t let you rest. Not when you hear the heaving of their chest, the crunch underneath their boots. _Found you._ You laugh at that thought. How they stand over you. Turn your eyes and see those honey brown turned dark and void, no life. No lights on for you, not anymore.

You’re just strangers, after all.

A hand reaches out, pulls you up by the front of your suit. You weigh nothing, just like the measure at which you stand in their heart. That gets you to smile, biting, the kind of twist that once you would’ve been asked about, _oh Logan, why must you smile in such a way_? But those words will never follow, not as Ricardo Ortega holds a gun out. Against your temple, where the web, the connection, once lay.

There are no words, not as you lean into the embrace. Turn your lips and find where his pulse should be. As cold as the ground on which you lay. No more warmth, no more life. You would never find that again.

So you tear. At the image. As the illusion shifts and shudders and it’s you, staring back now. No longer wearing his face. They drop you, letting your head bounce and you are. Red. A burn along the snow as you kick up. Roll out the way, an elbow raised to cover your face. Feel the catch, muscle, and no. Yes. Not like this. Maybe it would be. 

Lean in. Feel the weight of the dark and red and you pull on those threads. Even if this body was rotten and ruined, you would make it back. To him. One way or another.


	94. where did the sunshine go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov.

She is. Fives seconds until eyes open, half rise. Swell of cheeks and puff of laughter. Mask askew and jacket scratched, but Logan takes the hand you offer, as you pull her to her feet.

Maybe you should chide her, about the risky move. About the fallout and the building and the way she had fallen. That even as you brush the dust from her shoulders as she pulls her hair back, tight ponytail, you know you should be responsible.

But you whisper, _that was crazy_ , as you lean in. Noses bumping, and you’re the one. Slipping shut. Lips finding hers, as she giggles, just there, corner of your mouth. Caught up in the moment and you don’t care right now, not really.

It’s the _I know_ that gets you. If only because you hear, maybe, something else. Under it all. You’ve always been the kind of man to dig yourself into situations, so why wouldn’t this be another one, too?

Especially when you think. You know. There might just be light on the other side. Logan smiles at you, far too bright, far too real. Oh, yes, of course there is.


	95. there are questions and answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> steel pov.

There are several things you had not expected upon returning to the headquarters on a day like today.

First, that the shelving in the fridge had actually been restocked, organised, and respectably left alone. That alone was enough to unsettle you, in the grand scheme of things. Hindsight would tell you that you should’ve paid attention. But regardless, you took a shake from your shelf, and closed the door.

Perhaps the second giveaway should’ve been that it was _quiet_. Unfamiliar. That you could walk through and hear your footsteps in the hallway. Not even the slightest photo or news clipping disturbed. You can’t hear any voices, none at all, as you peer into the nearest office. Check the date. No, nothing should’ve been on.

But definitely, the third, and most important, was opening up the Marshal’s office. And how you had to slowly blink, and watch as. Ricardo. Swivelled himself around, legs only, with a look on his face you couldn’t quite place. Almost like, for once, he was embarrassed.

You blink at each other. Too many questions on your tongue to really make anything out. So you. Breathe. Slowly now, carefully, don’t think about this too hard. “Ri—Charge? Are you alright?”

Ricardo at least had some manner of pleasantry to smile at you. Despite the way he seemed to have been cling filmed to the chair. “I’m not going to answer that question, for both our sakes.”

“… alright.”

Never have you closed a door fast enough. Barely two steps away, before you hear the peals of laughter. Like a cork had shot out too fast, and when you turn, you see the office door thrown open again. Logan tumbling out, dropping to the ground. For a moment, you might’ve considered something wrong with how she held her sides. But there’s a camera in her hand, and she’s not making words. Just sounds.

You. Just walk away.


	96. can you go forward from here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elena pov.

Your son is home.

And he is tired.

It has been too many months since he’d last sat on your couch, but Ricardo doesn’t smile. Like the sun hidden behind the clouds, and he’s on his side, holding a pillow. No sounds as he cries, and you wring your hands. Fix a plate of food, quick as anything before.

Ease him up, in your arms. When was the last time you had held him like this? When he had sobbed onto your shoulder? Ten, with nightmares? Sixteen with a broken heart? In his twenties, as the mods hurt his body and broke him, just a little. Took a part of him away in that accident that nothing could quite replace.

You don’t speak, because there’s a weight in your throat. One you’ve been holding onto, far too long. Waiting for this moment when Ricardo finally came home, hair a little too long, a little too much scruff. If you were anyone else, you might’ve said he smelt like he just rolled himself out of a gutter.

But you get him in the shower. Old clothes, far too soft. Left over from the one time that he had brought her home, to visit. _This is my friend_. Was. Another meal on the table, the other cold, wrapped, back in the fridge. You know he won’t eat, but you will be damned if you don’t try.

Get him in a chair. Scissors out, no bowl this time, you promise. At least he drinks the water, as you snip at the ends of his hair. Too long. Curls that fight your fingers and the scissors, far too like his father.

That’s not the comparison you want. Ricardo isn’t like him. He’s too soft and vulnerable. Still crying, watching the television. Distracted but you know that look on his face. Watch the way his hair falls, meets the ground. A terrible thought, that has you. Sigh softly.

Let yourself cry.


	97. the cold hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elena pov. twintega.

When the phone rings, you jump. Damn near out of your bones, but this was. What you had been waiting on.

Fearful, as you. Watch the way it lights up. _Unknown number_. Would you have preferred that? You don’t know, truly, as you make your way across the room. It would be silly, to ask the question of what if it been from anyone else? If you knew the number, the name, would you have moved faster? There is no answer right now.

Rather, that makes you hesitate, fingers brushing plastic. Too thick for an ordinary phone. A gentle reminder of what you may have yet lost.

Do you breathe, as you pick it up? Hold it against your ear, waiting for the inevitable pleasantries. The apologies and the platitudes and the way you’ve lived, holding onto this fear for the past few decades. Waiting for the call.

If only you hadn’t turned on the news today. If only you had told them you loved them when you had the chance. You can see the photo of the two of them, arms around each other. Smiles bright and wide and teeth missing and your knees almost buckle out from under you. Like your vision narrows, blurs. This is not a call you want to take.

But there’s silence, crackle of the line and maybe a sigh. “Hello?”

You almost hang up, until, a quiet, “mamá?”

There’s one. _Two_. Voices soft but you would recognise them in a crowd. Cover your mouth, trying to hide the sob, choked and broken and built up, weeks too late. “Julia? Ricardo?” Repeat their names, over and over, as you can hear them cry.

You will never be able to describe, how much it hurt, in that moment. To hear your children, to hear the _fear_ , that lived in them. Even as Julia whispered, “can we come home?”, you’re crying all over again.

Relief. Shame. Anger. Love. You are standing in the pit, waving your arms. But the world turns its back, and you sob out, “of course, of course.” Always. Please come home.

What did they expect? For you to say no? A part of you almost expected them to already be on your doorstep, bags in hand. Spare a look out the window, no, no sign of life outside. “I’ll make your beds,” you say, trying to. Bury it. Let it live.

“I love you, both of you, so, _so_ much.”


	98. crooked smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> handler pov.

If you focus a little too hard, you may see your reflection in the glass.

And you don’t want that — not at all. That would mean seeing the lines and the dark circles and the way your mouth curls up now, mangled and wide. Though scars heal and the pain will fade, focusing on the moment, the fear, makes it too real.

So you sit and wait, arms crossed, fingers pressing into your skin. Too real. Too close. You can remember each split second, and the flash of silver at the corner of your eye. The scream. At the noise that rings in your ears, the muscles in your cheek twitch, too hard, too fast. Like a reaction, and you have to. Cover. Breathe.

They’ll fix that problem soon enough.

The theatre was full, one too many of them idling around. Machines that beep and screens that flash, close ups. Working over and under and you don’t focus on technicalities, what that wire means. How the scalpel may look, coloured red. Nothing to you. It has to mean nothing to you.

As you know, in that moment, that was Billie. And her rage and fire and you grieved and lived. You wouldn’t get a second chance.

Hand on your shoulder, and it’s Evan. A face that looked far too pleased, even if his scrubs were filthy and you don’t want to question what they’ve done now. As long as the job was done right and good. No more repeats.

Couldn’t risk another time.


	99. breathe easy for now, child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. after the void.

Ricardo is six kinds of sweet, when you cup his cheeks in your hands. Sun-kissed skin, warm through your gloves, and if you looked closer, you might’ve been able to see the hint of freckles over his nose.

You don’t consider how your heart skips at that, like it was possible at all. But the mask hides your smile, even as he tugs at the end of your hair. Three times. No pause between.

“What’re you thinking about?”

There’s layers here, that you sift through. Always. Like peeking through a curtain, when he smiles like that. Sometimes you convince yourself that this is the real face, and then you see the other. One more. Blink and you always miss it.

Except that was okay, because his hands cover yours, hold you just there. Maybe Ricardo sees himself in your goggles. Maybe he sees through it all.

You don’t want to know.

“Needing a beer after all this,” you murmur, cut up with a light laugh.

End of the The Void. After all, it’s just the hot wired car and a radio that crackles now. You’re out. You’re alive. One more day. And he pulls you down, lips wet against your forehead.

“Let’s go home.”


	100. will it finally wash away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> herald pov.

You shoulder hurts. A twinge, right there, in a place you can’t reach.

Even as you reach, dig your fingers in, you just don’t. Won’t. Like it moves out of place, a little more to the left, a little lower. Higher. An itch you just had to scratch at, tear at, pull at the skin. Your suit. How it was blue and red and how the water couldn’t stop running.

Drowning out everything else. Thunder. Around your ears. But you have to cover, stop the noise. Stop everything. Wait, no, don’t, there’s blood, oh god, there’s so much blood.

Where were you supposed to. Touch. Hold. You are alone and cold and your hands are red. It’s not going away. No amount of water was making it go away. Just like last time. You can see the pink, around your fingers, old scars and warped skin. Blink and they’re gone, and you’re just. Red.

Even as there’s blue. Corner of your eye, not quite pushing into sight. Was there a sigh, or was that just the shudder of the water? Slide down next to you now, and you mumble a, “Charge?”

Beside you now, and they’re. Blurry. Hands that pull at yours, stopping the half moons from forming. Thumbs that smooth over your skin. Was it warmth? The slightest touch that seemed to exist, and make you. Remember. Feel.

“There’s still blood.”

Voice sounding as if you weren’t here, not really. Like you’re standing over, watching how Charge has a half smile. But it’s sad and sorry, and both your hands are cupped in theirs now. “Alright, let’s get rid of it, okay?”

You let them. Watch, as the red is washed away. With how their thumbs work at your palms, firm circles, finding every little bit. Scrubbing it, gone. Until all you can see is your skin, raw, scarred. Blue.

And you sob. Loudly, into how their arms wrap around you. Into their shoulder, and the itch abates. Still tickles, as you curls your fingers in their suit. Sorry, you say, as you close your eyes. Remember it all, too easily. Camera roll, flicking through the way you had. Messed up. Tried too hard. How it was all you.

“It’s okay,” Charge says, and you almost believe them. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

Nod. Blink at the tears. They reach up then, finding the handle, turning the water off. Letting the last of the water wash away, and then. It’s just you. And the itch, and the red, and the blue.


	101. last laugh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov.

You are connecting. A thousand pound in flesh, yes, no. Thoughts that don’t add up, with no singular focus. Little pinpricks running over your mind, like a current trying to bury too deep into your skin.

Shake it away. Right hook, finding the ribs. No crack, no satisfaction, but there’s a dance away, and you get another step forward. Another swing, block with your leg at an angle that has your knee sing funny. Don’t think about it, as you put weight on the joint and kick yourself out further. Never think about it.

And she ducks, spins away. You know that look, as she’s backed up. Finding a wall or a car or something that you cleave straight through, where she’s out to the side. Quick thought, both of you passing Go, when knives clang, four times, lost to the scenery.

Keep going, keep moving. Each time you manage to catch the shoulder, arm, it’s like it turns to liquid in your hands, slipping out of your grasp. Enough. Enough! Open palm, slams, middle of her chest. You don’t think about the kind of current you release then. Did you ever? Yes, of course you did.

Of course.

But she screams. Hands that grab at your face and there’s pressure on your eyelids, thumbs digging in. You don’t know who stopped first, really, as you drop her, palms going to rest over your eyes. Seeing stars and you stumble a few feet back.

 _Enough_. Enough to give her that opening. That moment. Hear the firing up of jump jets and you pull your own hands away enough to blink, distorted in the light. Try to find her. Reach out and catch air. Dammit. Dammit!

A knee catches you in the shoulder, making you tip. Lower, to the ground, and a leg wraps around your waist. If this were another life, you would remember this, and the laughter that may have followed. If this were another life, you would not have considered third degree burns as reasonable, as expected, to throw her off. To stop her from ripping at your suit, how it burrows its way in your ears.

Reach up, in an angle that your shoulders don’t forgive you for. Grip her arm and leg, a little too loose, you know. Concentrate, readying the next fire. Only then do you see the sliver of metal in her hand, and the way she brings it down.

You do not know what happens next.


	102. lives and losses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov.

“What are you doing up here?”

From the way she looks up at you, you know you’ve interrupted her light. Holds a hand up, shielding her eyes, other starting to push herself up.

“Fancy meeting you here.” The smile is cheeky and sunburnt, far too warm. Walks around your question too easily, and it’s not like you were going to press her anyway. You both knew that.

Crouch down now, just to her side. Reach out, and you poke her forehead. “I should be saying that to you. You know that Steel said you had a week ban, right?”

Logan laughs then, fingers around your wrist and pulling you down, further now. Resting on your hands, hovering over her. “If Steel wanted me banned so badly, he would’ve upped security.”

“You need to stop breaking in.”

“Is that an order, Marshal?”

Rest your forehead against hers now, noses brushing. “Maybe. Maybe not.” Quick flick of eyes down. Catch the smile Logan gives you, soft. Genuine. “Would you follow a direct order, Sidestep?”

She sighs, far too light and airy, arms wrapping around your neck. Count the barely there freckles along her nose, deceptively innocent. “Maybe. Maybe not.” Repeats it, with a tease.

And you grin. Press your lips against her cheek. “Not even for me?”

With a laugh, she turns to meet your lips. Mumbles, right there, “I’d have to think about that.”


	103. half step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

Cross your arms, and stare down your nose at him. Or up, with how you sat on the floor, and Ricardo hovered over you. Bouncing a little too excitedly.

“Why in the world do you need a dancing partner?” You cannot contain the level of annoyance in your voice today, no sir. Not at all. Whilst you had said you’d be there for him, this seemed out of the realm of hero work. A little too personal.

“Practice. Why, can’t dance?” Quick quip, and he’s crouching down now. Hands pulling at yours, trying to encourage you up. Are you purposely letting yourself go loose, to make it harder for him? Ricardo would never know.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Pause. Blink. Frown. “Do you need an excuse to grope me now?”

That was definitely the lightest hint of a blush on his cheeks, and he sounded remarkably scandalised with the way he remarked: “Perish the thought!”

Not that it did anything to diminish his efforts from getting you to stand up. So you do, hands on hips. Watching him with narrowed eyes — how he seemed to sweat a little under your look. Ricardo claps his hands together in front of his face, a broad smile appearing behind.

“Ricardo, I don’t—”

“Dance?”

Slow blink. “ _What_?”

Snaps his fingers. “It makes sense. You _can’t_ dance.” Like a lightbulb appears over his head, and you watch him come to his own resolution with a mounting sense of,

 _Oh_ , the bastard was baiting you. And you didn’t want to admit that it was working.

With a huff, you grab his hands then. One at your waist, the other firmly to the right. You don’t have the words for the expression on his face, when you tug him just that half step closer. “You never speak of this again.”

He looked far too satisfied. “Scout’s honour.” Signs an ‘x’ over his heart, the smile wide enough that there’s that damn dimple, that you can’t help but stare at. Frown at.

You don’t trust him. But his hand is warm and dry in yours, and you’re close enough to smell his cologne. Focus on the space, just over his shoulder. “Okay, first step.” Breathe, you can do it.

Don’t think about it. Just that half step back.


	104. another life was meant to be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov

And what would you say to the pair of red eyes that haunt you? To the figure by the door?

That you were sorry? That you knew?

That you had suffered enough, and yet spectres linger, and the drip in your arm was the only reminder you were still here. You weren’t gone yet. Not even the afterlife wanted you, not yet, and that you were still breathing. Still thinking. Still watching.

Shuffle through the same five places. The door, the window. The chair, turned towards you, just so, and yet no one else seemed to sit. You blink and, oh, end of the bed now, hands on the railing. How many hours until you could find an answer to the question?

Until you look up, to your left — _always_ at your left — and the spectre is there once more. Hovering. Staring. You could reach up, touch your fingers to their cheek. Instead you are the five steps behind, trying to decipher the expression.

The **hate**.

Contorts their face and twists that smile, the one you had once. Lo— _seen_. Always. Turned to you in times when you needed it most. What was it now? Late night, bags under eyes. Smell of smoke and leather and lilacs, always. You know it’s her.

Somewhere, underneath all that hate.

But it tugs at you. To know that she can see you staring, and yet there are no words spoken. Just the way you swallow, wet your lips, open your mouth. Idle chatter with nurses who walk around, away. Never seem to notice the presence in the room.

You just hold her gaze, until the hours click by. Close and open. New spot. Same expression. Arms crossed, you’re surprised she doesn’t smoke.

Maybe that would be too real, break the illusion. Maybe you’d finally snapped, and there was no Heartbreak. Not the first, not the second. You consider, half a second, it might’ve been you, the whole time.

But the spectre holds firm, right there, out of your grasp. She’s real. You don’t want to admit it to yourself, anyway.


	105. goodbye, love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov.

“You wanted to know why I did it, was that your question?”

From your position against the wall, just out of sight, you can see the way the reporter approaches. Don’t need to be close to hear the way they fall over themselves, _uh huh, yes please_ , and you. Dig your fingers in your arm. Wait for the moment.

But they get too close, and the leg that snaps out, _thwack_ , collects them firmly under the chin. Sends them flying, and there’s more than one body now, thrown at Heartbreak. Holding her tighter, as she laughs, and you don’t know if the reporter was dead. Just watch how the body is dragged off, how there’s a sudden and noticeable distance between her, and them.

Logan, and you.

Snap, and you can feel the electricity. Even at the way she turns her head, watching how they force one of those batons into her back, dropping her down. No, no, you had to step in. You couldn’t watch any longer. Move the plan up.

“I’ll take her.”

They watch you, but no one budges as you step close. Hands closing around the cuffs at her wrist. Safety lock, likely fingerprint coded. You could overload them. You could let them take her.

If Logan seemed to register your presence, she kept it to herself. A sideways glance, and the slightest drop of eyes, as you focus a thin line of electricity through the cuffs. Wait for the guards to move forward, a little more distance.

“You need to get out of here.”

“They’ll never forgive you for this.”

“The dampners will be off any second now. You need to get out.”

There’s that look again. The disbelief. Even as her fingers flex, and you can see the fine lines of burns, thumbs brushing her skin. You would apologise, but colour seems to rush back to her cheeks. Dampners must’ve turned off, and you scope the room quickly. See how Argent slides back in.

“I’m sorry.”

No warmth to her words, and you don’t know if she means them, not really. Maybe it was just a platitude, but you respond with a, “me too.”

It’s like watching the world tip, with how they all fall down.


	106. electric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov.

lean into her, nose brushing the line of her jaw. hand flat on her stomach, except you dig your fingers in and there's a laugh, just there, that you have to kiss at. chase, as she turns, hand on your face now. dissolves into giggles, and the sheets catch at your ankles. bed big enough for the both of you, and yet it's the edge, just there. hanging on.

sighs your name, as you touch. find. moves into the way your fingers press in. half a second of a mumbled sentence, _don't you dare shock me this time_ , which has you giggle into her neck. brush your teeth there, find the skin. sink your teeth in, and. feel the way she twitches against you. presses in.


	107. catch and release

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. nsfw

Lower yourself. Hands beside his head. Catch and release, a kiss that is deep and soft and a drag of teeth along the curve of his jaw. Flutter of a heartbeat, right there, as your hips find his and your lips at his pulse. Fingers that curl in your hair, pulling you back, up.

To meet you in something that is open mouthed and hot and wet and your name. Always the whisper, corner of your mouth, accompanied by a smile. Signed, sealed, delivered. So you kiss him back, a little too rough, a little too honest. If only because you couldn’t give Ricardo much else, except a few buttons torn off, hand on his chest. Nails pressing in, say his name, once more.

Roll your hips. Grind down on him. Shift only a fraction so you’re against his thigh, and you see the momentary pause, where his eyes damn near roll to the back of his head. A drawn out _fuck_ that’s always far too. Don’t think about it. Let him touch you, over the layers, trace lines he can’t see. Fingers that tease along the band of your jeans, dipping in further still when you don’t say no. Never say no.

Not when he kisses you. Touches you. Holds you as you press yourself against his thigh, back and forth. When your noses drag against and teeth click and you’re fighting with the button of his jeans now. Pulling his cock free with a shaky hand and it’s not the worst way you’ve touched him. If anything, Ricardo still bucks and _fuck, Logan, yes, please_.

Please, please, please. Just enough friction but it falls short. Seam of your pants pushing against you, but you need. To touch. Feel. Catch and release. Sweep a stripe up Ricardo’s neck, as his nails drag against your scalp. Find that look out the corner of his eye. Dangerous thoughts.

Tempting ones.

Stroke him harder. Ricardo pants against your cheek, words you almost didn’t want to hear. Not really. Not yet.

But you nod, because you do. Of course you do. A fool to try to lie to yourself, of all people, as your shirt sticks to your skin with sweat and you don’t pull away from him. Not even as he is slow as his fingers find your ribs, waist, hips. Band of your pants and you don’t push him away. Bruise his lips and whine his name and Ricardo pops the button, dips his fingers in.

Tomorrow you might worry about the consequences. Today, you have him, against you. Hand trapped between your body and his thigh as you move your hips. Feel him press back, fingers at your clit, rubbing furiously in time with a rhythm you don’t know. Your own, slack against his cock. Loose wrist, loose movements.

Too busy burying your moans in the curve of his neck. White light, and the way he laughs, something you don’t understand. As it’s just his name and _him_ and the way he holds you, carries you through. Far too gentle and sweet, as he shouts, _Logan!_ You, youyou _you_.

Fingers slick, but pulls your chin up, towards him. A kiss that bites a little too hard, sears itself on your skin. A little too honest, a little too real. You kiss him back. You kiss him back in a way that tips the world and leaves a fingerprint, right there, left of your chest. Maybe next week you’d care.

Maybe never. Ricardo’s hands slide to your waist, as the kiss turns gentle, soft. Pecking at his lips in a way that drags a smile. Forehead against his now, nose nudging his. Turn in for that press of smile, once more, come on, one more time. Please.

“Just for you.”


	108. jingle jangle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov.

“Is that my bike?”

 _Finally_. You turn around, just enough to catch him in your peripherals. Doesn’t matter, as he does a little jog, closer now, leaning in. And oh, that was not a face that was going to be your friend. You grin wider.

“I’m pretty sure it’s mine now.”

“You cheated.”

Place a hand on your chest, letting the distress shine through. The nerve! “You knew what the stakes were!”

Ricardo pauses, teeth worrying his lower lip. Eyes that catch and pause on different parts of the bike, before looking back up at you. You have to look away. Not when he does that thing with eyebrows and the wobble of his chin. _Dammit_. “But… I didn’t think you would take it seriously.”

Be cold as _ice_ , you got this. “Rules of the jungle.” Don’t look away now, but stare at the shoulder of his jacket. Lay some pressure on, don’t give in.

A scoff. “Come on, Logan. Give me back the keys.”

Pull them out of the bike before he can reach for them, clutching them close to your chest. “If you _didn’t_ want to lose the bike, you shouldn’t have put them on the table!”

And Ricardo can never claim that he is brighter than you, ever again, for how he lunges. Damn near tips the bike over, too much weight on your leg where the kickstand shudders. Almost reach out to steady yourself, and there’s some laughter, you’re sure, with how he wraps his arms around you, pulling you off.

In the air now, his name being shouted. Keys still clutched to your chest, even as Ricardo spins. “Let go!”

“Never!”

“Then you’re not getting the keys!”

Laughing too hard, your cheeks hurt. Even as he tips you back, towards the ground, a hand coming up to dig at yours. Misses and catches your side, pressing in. Squeak and you try, so hard, to wriggle out. You do. Because he tickles you and holds you close and the keys don’t even matter anymore.

Not when you’re like this.


	109. safety first

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov. nsfw.

long stokes. how you always start, long firm strokes. tv low in the background, and youre feeling just a little tipsy. a little slippery. like your mind was soft, and you huff, sigh, thumb dragging over your tip, spreading the beading precome with ease.

plant your feet, and push yourself up a little. eyes drag over the screen, nothing of interest. whatever. spit in your hand and stroke once more.

let your head fall back on the pillows. eyes roll to the side, and you're not really there. not really here. half mast in your hands and click your tongue. dammit. can't even remember what got you so worked up to begin with and now you're here.

looking over at the wall, let your eyes follow the cracks. until you see a sign, and you tilt yourself to read it properly.

a little bolt of lightning. sure, it's a warning, safety first, but the idea hits you hard. bite your lip and well. turn off the tv. the lights. feel the hum of the room drop until it was just you.

test spark, between your fingers. frown, focusing on the tiniest bolt right there. thumb and forefinger, and the way it fizzles out.

this is fucking crazy. doesn't stop how you lick your lips, spit into your hand once more. firmer strokes, and you don't need to focus so much anyway. harder now, grunt leaving you as you push up into your fist.

do you do it? no. yes. yes? let go of yourself to test once more. just a little spark. nothing else. should work the same as a vibrator, right? right, you tell yourself that.

you're not the first mod to try something like this, surely. maybe you should wait, check some boards out, just not,

you're going to do it. one more spark, and you're absolutely sure. finger dragging from base to tip, the barest hint of electricity over your skin. around the head, and you're blinking too much, getting a little lost.

mind goes white. blank. if you're moaning, you don't hear it, wrapped up in how you squeeze your eyes shut, fingers tearing at the sheet, and you jump. kickstart. holy fucking shit.

when you're able to even see again, let alone breathe, blink at the ceiling. holy shit. holy shit. look down and there's a trail on your stomach, but you shoot up, have to double check. oh, fuck, what if you burned yourself? why didn't you think of that?

and no, safe, cock heavy against your thigh. a little pink, but no worse for wear.

flopping back, you go to shift back against the pillows. oh. damn. arm over your eyes, and you grin. laugh. roll onto your side, very aware of how numb your lower half was.

holy shit.


	110. go, go, go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. sequel to [chapter 52](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19096309/chapters/47347498)

_please_. final word. closes the door behind him. that's it then. you don't have anywhere else to go

you need to get out. move your feet. don't think about how you're rooted to the spot and how fear grips your spine. he tells you this is a safe space, but you need to leave. now! go logan, hurry up!

out the door. down the hall. don't look too hard at the security officer, now how their gaze lingers. ortega wouldn't, surely. perhaps? walls closing in, and you take the stairs, two at a time. get out get out get out.

dont know who to trust. where to turn. front door? no, fire escape. too many eyes at the desk. they know your face now. ortega doesn't believe you. did he ever, though? did he ever love you, like this? like before?

close your arms around yourself, shouldering the door with more force than necessary. immediately out into the street and go go dont stop dont look back. alarm going off behind you, security check, fire door open. don't look back. don't look back

eyes wide shut. focused on the street, foot in front of the other. pushing through the heave and ho of crowds, ignore the cab. too much evidence. don't dig your nails into your skin.

layers. hot. stuffy. can't breathe. don't stop moving.


	111. goodbye forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortega pov. post hb

Your hands are shaking, and you don’t breathe. Not in the slightest, hold it in, as you turn the key.

There’s at least twelve different scenarios you expect to happen, as the door slips open. Most of them involve whatever Logan’s personal security systems to be to gut you, which wouldn’t be considerably wrong, but instead you find the smell of dust. Touch of perfume, one more step in.

Sweep along the floor, no sensors, no nothing. Just the door closing behind you, soft click to say you were alone, once again, and the way you take in. The sun. Light filtering through, dust falling to the ground softly, now disturbed.

Like it hadn’t changed at all. A reminder of how many months it had been, and you have to draw your eyes away. Try to pick up the little things. Could only pay out the apartment for so long, you needed to. Close this chapter. Move on.

Fingers brush the walls as you walk, finding the little paintings along the way. Curls of colour, flowers that glow, reaching up. Maybe it means something, with how it starts a little too dark, too rough, too real. Spreads across, gradually lighter and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say _happier_. Where yellows shine underneath and the foil shifts under your fingers.

Half finished, by the bedroom door. A few cans next to your feet, untouched and forgotten. Trace the sketches, fine and thin, trying to work out the name. But you’re a fool, and they smudge under your fingers, gone for good.

Don’t think about it, don’t do it, _don’t_.

Blink away the burn at the corners of your eyes. One foot in front of the other, around the couch, pockmarked by cigarettes but with that throw your mother had insisted on giving to Logan. Pillows from places you don’t remember, and a light that didn’t match. Shoes and clothes and a washing basket, half full, to the side. You didn’t know how many boxes you would need. You didn’t know where to begin.

And maybe, deep down, you knew it was because you didn’t want to not look up at the ceiling anymore, and no longer see the stars. Old stickers, faint glows. A replica sat in your own lounge, carefully marked and placed. That the violin in the corner, long since played, meant something. The gloves you hesitate to pick up, and the dishes that still sat in the sink.

This door was going to be shut, but you didn’t want to be the one to do it. Not even when you draw closer to the bedroom, and you feel. Guilt? Sadness? Anger? At nudging the door open. Chest constricting and there is no air in here. No life.

A light switch that is dim and plants that were shrivelled, gone. Like you were walking into reality, with the closet half open, clothes thrown around. Last thoughts and moments of Sidestep, right here, with you carefully stepping around. How you remembered waiting in the other room, feet on the couch, as she kept yelling, _five more minutes_ , until you were late to the meeting. Until you were late to the scene.

 _Until_.

It’s the photo by the bed that gets you. Dated and signed and you’d almost forgotten the way Logan smiles. Smiled. End note. Had to keep remembering, reminding yourself, that the perfume was finally fading from your apartment and the dust settled around you. And that you were left, she was gone.

Not even your memories were reliable, anymore. When you hug that photo to your chest, will yourself to breathe. That you couldn’t _remember._ That she was gone.


	112. burn of lilacs true

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov

Flick of cigarette from your fingers, stubbed out with the toe of your boot. Exhale, until all the air leaves your lungs. Until you are hollow and hurt, nothing left. Feel the song, as it burns, crackles, buries its fingers in your mind. That’s all it is.

Slow. Chest swell, play the song louder. Harder. Slip the mask down once more, bright lights leaving spots behind your lids.

You wretch open the door. Off its hinges, to the side. Steps two at a time. Bury it. Bury the song. Keep the voice, gentle, sweet, _bury it._ **Fucking bury it.**

At the top. Don’t remember getting here. Don’t remember you. The face is familiar, the one that mirrors back, curved, out of shape. You can see your eyes flicker to life with three quick blinks. Hard blue outline, capturing the way your lip twists.

This is you, isn’t it? The real you.

Not the faces that stare back at you. Marred, your own flesh and blood. Together and whole, while you are spare parts, the afterthought. The beginning. Are you their beginning? Or are they your end? Will you end up replaced once more, slipped in between the cracks, where no one dares to look?

Can’t even say if that was you. No. Yes. Exhale once more. Taste the smoke on your lips, find your split lip, and there’s perfume. Lilacs. Oh, god, it really was you, after all, wasn’t it? Blood and smoke and lilacs, the beat that boils and pulls. You are not them.

They can never be you. You lean into the song, when she, you, Logan. _Nu_. Takes a step forward. When the gap begins to shrink, and the world narrows, darkens. Fire.


	113. in your hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anathema pov.

A frown. “What is it?”

And you struggle to contain the shock. Search her face, for something that may remarkably be the truth, until. Oh. There. Corner of her eye. Where a wrinkle forms and the smile splits, right down the middle of her mouth.

“You’re awful, honestly.”

Logan grins, far too easy, flopping back against the couch. Hold it up, in the air. Maybe you should tell her to be careful. Watch how she shakes it, little bits of snow falling.

“Why the snow?”

Shrug. “You said you’d never seen it before.”

That gets you a sly look, only interrupted by the shouting from the kitchen. You spare a glance over your shoulder, where you see Ricardo shove Julia all the way out, and look back. Pointing and yelling, before Julia muscles her way past once more.

“I got it on the last trip out, since, y’know…”

“I wasn’t allowed.” But Logan winks, softer smile now. “I know. Woe is the life of a common vigilante.”

“Ah yes, the common rabble rousers!”

Loud laughter, from both of you, as the globe is set carefully on the table, far from the edge. Not that she takes her eye off it anyway, even as there’s a call for _dinner!_ and you’re up. About to move.

Thin fingers, catch your wrist. Logan holds you there, an expression on her face you’d never seen before. If you didn’t know any better, you would say that smile was rather watery of her.

“Thank you. I mean it.”

You bite your lip, and nod. “Just means that the souvenir you get for me has to have sparkles on it.”

Logan snorts, pulls you in. Tight hug. Interrupted by the way Ricardo calls once more, _come on_ , food getting cold, and you’re up. You’re soft, and the light catches the globe.


	114. the long goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> julia pov

One. Two. Up, down. Feel the strain, down your back. Shoulders, hips. Keep going. Five, six. Forehead bumping your knees, as you turn yourself in. Until the sweat caught in your hair, sticking to the back of your neck. You needed to cut it again, soon. Growing out too much. Don’t focus on that, not now, come on.

There’s a catch in your muscles, and you. Let yourself breathe. Stretch out, arms wide on the floor. Bring a leg up and over, nails digging in. Pull and _harder_ , until the burn from your shoulders isn’t the problem anymore.

Until you release. Deep breaths, too warm. Bring your leg up, hanging in the air. Not far enough to do much of anything.

Except a hand catches your foot, pushing it towards you now. Meet Chen’s eye, as you hold. One, two, three. Next leg. Three, two, one. Flop to the ground, heels hitting a little too hard, and eye the hand he offers.

Take it. Dragged to your feet and it’s too stuffy in here now. Not enough air. Was there ever enough, anyway?

“Overdoing it won’t help.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

Snap back, but there’s no fingers. No expected flow. Like the words are sitting, base of your throat, ready and vicious. Towel thrown at your face, and you don’t question why he was here.

Chen doesn’t spare you another glance. “I expect you back within a week.”

“I’m still not going to be Marshal.”

And that earns you a look. The one you don’t decipher, but hold. “I can’t do it, Chen. I _can’t_.”

If you were any other kind of person, you would say he was sucking on his teeth, with the face he was making. Or a lemon. Something. Before his eyes flick up, thinking, back at you. “Julia…”

Hold your hands up, sign of defeat. Don’t notice the way they were shaking. Had you eaten today? You couldn’t remember the last time you had — it had been hours since you’d walked in here, after all. “My mind is made up.”

Another long silence, before. “Fine. Monday, oh-seven-hundred, _sharp_.”

Chen is gone, before you can react. No waiting for thanks, just the shaking of his head, the towel in your hands. The way you. Breathe.


	115. fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidestep pov. nsfw.

Bite your lip. Watch the way he lowers himself, turn your lips to kiss at his wrist, beside your head. Bead of sweat, just there, at his forehead, trail down now. How he rearranges his position, resting on his knees. Another twitch in his cheek, and Ricardo settles himself at your waist, a hand resting in the middle of your chest.

One moment. Where you push up, enough to close the distance, to move and feel the hitch in his breath. Kiss him, tenderly so, until you hear the murmur of your name. Logan. And you fall back, hands at his hips. A light tap, a quick wink.

“Your turn.”

Slow grin, as he pushes himself up. Groan caught in his throat, as he pushes back down. Again. Once more. Shift your hips to meet him, and there’s a sound that might’ve been your name. Move yourself, to angle your knees and keep your feet steady, changing the angle enough for him to. Moan. Loud. Unabashed. Knowing exactly what he was doing.

Sweep of fingers against his cock, and Ricardo opens an eye to stare down at you. To hold your hand there, against him, firmly up and down. Dimple deepening, as your thumb brushes the tip, and he sinks lower, again. One more time.


	116. Chapter 116

she finds you, out on the balcony. quickly exhale, other direction, stub the cigarette out. look the other way, just as she does. like two ships passing in the night, and you offer a smile.

"i'll leave." go to brush past, ashtray in hand.

but there's a moment. a twinge. where you look down and see the way she stops, stares at the floor. don't think too much of it, you tell yourself, and fish out the mints from your pocket. you're gone.


	117. Chapter 117

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: saccharine

you need to say something. for how your gut twists, curls, churns. you are only able to turn your eyes down instead, focus on the way the sugar sinks in, pinpricks in your mind, drag your tongue over the soft serve and will it to do something, anything. turns you honeyed and saccharine, flush on your cheeks as there’s laughter again, a glue you can’t make your way through. next bite is bigger, with the cold seizing you, breaking through. lost in how they smile, now, watching you hold a hand to your head, and. you don’t think you could ever get rid of this feeling. not when it holds you like this, lingering in your bloodstream the way they do.


	118. Chapter 118

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: sunbathing

fan on low, moving the shutters only enough to stroke at the light. wind chime of light that filters in, catching in your eyelids, little streams that betray the soft for how warm they actually are. find pieces of your skin you had not covered, dipping orange with each brushstroke. maybe later you’d be concerned, but there’s a wait on your chest now, soft noises made from your companion. apparently you had stolen the perfect spot to sunbathe, but when your nails find that perfect spot behind the ears, you are both content to simply. lay still. and just breathe.


	119. Chapter 119

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: in dreams

you cannot remember the night, as there is none for you. it is a moment, close your eyes, and then there’s the snap, the pull, and you are awake once more. another body and another name and wearing down the hours until you return home once more. ‘home’, you ask? in dreams, home is bubbles in front of your eyes and the sweat that slowly drips down the back of your neck. 

so when you let your eyes shut and the arms wind around you waist, you are afraid. of the dark and the truth and the way you will betray and be betrayed. but morning comes and you are still asleep.


	120. Chapter 120

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: baubles

And he says, _I know you’re not one for jewellery,_ but. Holds onto the word as he fishes out something from the top drawer, while you hold the pillow just a little closer. Tighter, until your nails dig in and you bite your lip. But it’s the wrong side, and he has to lean over you with a laugh, that’s nervous and cut up and you can’t read his mind, but he can’t read yours, either. So you’re stuck, as he closes the drawer with a little more force than necessary, and holds it out over your eyes. 

A bauble, you recognise. Fear. Once before he had tried to give it to you, when you hadn’t been ready but neither had he. Like a leap that neither of you were sure about, not really. Simply a gift, in hindsight, but it still shone like it was yesterday, and you were seven years past, sitting on the sidewalk with a mask askew. Were you ready now? Would you _ever_  be? These are the questions that you don’t think, as you sit up. Pull your hair to the side. After all, you had already missed out once before. You weren’t willing to do that again.


	121. Chapter 121

Should you forget?

As you work buttons through holes, slide your hands around your hips, you ask the question. And it is loud and real as it finds the reality, here, in your room. No longer a secret, buried under paper and in drawers and the hope that you were wrong.

So you pull at the curtain and let the light in. Slinky and slow and catches, right there, violent orange and golds. She is stretched, hanging off the edge, a smile full of teeth and the rise and fall of her chest. Find those spider web of scars that decorate her face. See something else.

Stepping out, just your silhouette hanging, spectre. Should you forget. As you reach for her, find the softness of her cheek, holding, just so. Enough for her to lean in, for you to see the red of her eyes.

And Logan never answers. Never has, never will. Lower yourself, dip her head back, and the kiss bites and poisons and terrifies, because you never could close your eyes. Had to go digging, had to find the truth. Here it now sits before you, hand in your hair, keeping you close, cheek to cheek. Asking you to breathe.

“What are we doing here?” Whisper it. Make it real.

She says, “you need to decide.”

You are caught, between orange. Trail fingers down the inside of her arm, find her hand, catch and hold. Release. “I never was good with decisions.”

Spider webs and the burn behind your eyelids, as you find patterns and scars and her. _Her_. You could never forget. Even as bile rises and there are pockmarks and holes that you thought you knew and remembered. Replaced. Eyes open.


	122. Chapter 122

And they tell you,

You are not human.

But words are words, strung together to harm, and your reflection is simple and clear and you are never haunted. Your eyes and your lines and thumb tracing the scars, just there. Where there are memories of lightning and glass. The meanings never find you, hurt you, scare you.

So you don the mask, once again. Different reasons, some that you yourself don’t even understand. Perhaps you don’t want to, after all. The weight is heavy, and the world is cold. But you breathe the air that they all do, fill your lungs, close your eyes. You are here. And the world doesn’t make sense, but when you move, for one whole moment, it does. Shrug off the words, live.

Except,

You are not human.

Lick your lips and watch them curl. Upwards, finding the place where the expression matches and cuts into lines. A wonder they never replaced the face; new skin, new you. Left you old and marked and there are lives you had lost, that are sunk too deeply into you. But this one keeps going.

Hands don’t shake anymore, when you raise the mask up. When you see yourself, what will be. No could have, no what was. Always just you, you, _you_. That’s what it was, right? Surely. What they meant for you, maybe, yes, no. Playing to a beat you don’t understand, and you can’t ignore the glow, the reminders.

After all,

 

You were never meant to be human.


	123. Chapter 123

So you sit, and there is a hair’s breadth between. As if the barest touch would break the moment, and you feel the drag of lips right _there_. Across your own, a kiss in only the meaning of the word. Nothing weighted behind. Because it speaks to you of fear and time and the flush of breath on your skin. Soft swear at your cheek.

Shift your hand, press against hers. Line up your fingers, and they are crooked and too large knuckles. Speaking of years long past and fist fights and one too many reckless stunts. The only tension, connection, knowledge that this is real and life and she’s sinking now. Feet first into the deep end, disappearing under the blue.

Again, again again again.

You follow, as you always have. Had. _Wanted to_. Her going places you could not follow, with bubbles filling the space before your eyes. With her hands on you, lips against yours. Like the ferryman, hands out, a coin, please.

One day, you would ask how she breathed. Another day. With the orange and red on her hands and your fingers caught between. Tied up and held prisoner and you give and you give and.

Surface breaks. First break of air is full and loud and the world roars to life in your ears. Reach for the edge, one hand digging in, as you catch her. Before she gets away again. No more.

You will not settle for staring into those cold dark eyes.

And hearing.

Nothing.

At. All.


	124. Chapter 124

Hands behind your back, lost in the mansion. Idle wandering while the others talked and your mind needed to ease. No more pushing of questions and smiles. Leave it to Hood, and Steel, and Sunstream, Sentinel. Filling out the little corners of the necessary evils, while you no longer hear footsteps, finding carpet.

The hallway is long, not unlike nightmares, despite the lights. And it’s there that your mind plays tricks on you, what’s behind that door? Don’t look over your shoulder. Idle, terrible. Ignore the numbers, how the voices are almost gone.

Take a left, right, left again. You had never thought to actually ask where a bathroom was, but you may have passed at least three. Make that a fourth. Maybe you should start backtracking. Maybe you just find yourself near a terrace, low light, leading out into the garden. A colossal tank spanning the floor.

Open doors, soft wind, picking up something that couldn’t truly be considered a curtain. Far too sheer, but the room is scented, and you scrunch up your nose. One day, you may get used to this. But you step down, taking in the world just over there. The other side.

Is that what freedom looked like? Don't think of that. Just think of hands that reach towards glass, finding it cool, watching the fish scurry. But then they return, curious and sweet, following the way you drag your finger. Bob and rise and you follow the lines of rocks, plants, a curious yellow one, who does not leave you be.

Lowering yourself, you’re eye level with the little fish now. Never turning away from you. Could a fish smile? You don’t know who you should ask that, except in that moment, you believed, _yes_.

You create little circles with your finger, followed intently. Until you don’t. Where the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and your breath stops short. You were not alone. Not with how the other eye, on the other side, blinks idly, staring back. Palm flat on the glass, don’t push too hard, don’t crack it, just _breathe_.

Stand, and you are mimicked. Focus on your reflection for half a second, see the wide eyes, the slightly darkened cheeks, and meet the cool stare. Impassive and impartial. Dare you say, unimpressed. You could call out, ask who she was. You could leave.

Anything, instead of palm still flat against the glass, eye following the way the water throws light over her cheeks. Eyes that cut, put you back together. Not a familiar feeling, when you remember those only metres away, and how they had shoved microphones in your face. Asked for your voice.

How ironic to think it was lost, in the way you follow those three steps right, pull back. Watch how she measures you, frowns. Looks from under her hair. Care not for what you look like, dark suit, tie askew. Barely there bandage peeking out from under your collar, nor the way you move the hair out of your eyes.

She turns to you, then, completely. A look that will not be placed, that softens around the eyes, even if confused by the action. You will remember this face, for how she looks at you shifts, changes, is _gone_. Lost in the blue shift, one last flick of eyes, that are tinged red.

Red and hollow.

Gone.


	125. Chapter 125

Fools make the first move.

And you are no fool, when your elbow rises, catching the wild fist. A jab that might’ve caught you in the ribs, and you return in kind. Right, left, traumatise the spot. Indulge in the scream, shuddering through teeth, only for a second. Leg up and around, covering yourself, pushing him back.

On the prowl, three more steps. Duck left, right, find the spot once more. Ripple along the skin, and don’t give him time to breathe, oh no. Up high, catch the edge of your fist on his chin. Again. Once more. _Once more_. It is sheer will holding the man together, as he settles for a tackle, around your middle.

Let him raise and carry you, as you bring an elbow down on his shoulder. Between the finer joint, where you know it will hurt the most. Thrice more, inching evermore to the left, where the bone protrudes and men are weak. Where you catch, enough force to kill most others. To have him drop you, hands flying back, jaw hanging weak.

Land on your hands, turn around. You are metal and fire, and the skin may hate you later, but the force to his knee does now. Perfect point, dancer’s kick, feel the crumble. Twist yourself up to stand, as he falls, opposite knee. Only a moment, as you are up and down, heel greeting his shoulder now. The last hello.

 _Goodbye_.


	126. Chapter 126

Three slams. Wall. Mirror. Sink. Solid cracks, right there, on the tile. Catch the second, in time, as the reflection is a spider web, and you are the predator, never prey. Swipe, arm, yours now. _Thwack_ , elbow down, perfect angle. Hear the scream, garbled, oh no, not today.

Carry his weight to the ground, and you are one hand around the throat, another over the bone. Pressure on both. See the way you look in his eyes, in his mind. How he just can’t stop staring into those evil eyes.

No hope, and you are done. Half moons in skin, last gasps, the slow kiss goodbye. Catch the last flicks of hair behind pins as you stand, tuck one in, just behind your ear. Step around, light’s off. Goodnight.


	127. Chapter 127

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw

Open mouthed kisses, sliding over skin, brushing past lips. Hungry and fingers that wind in hair, you’re a little too caught up in the way he drags the neck of the hoodie down — _his_ hoodie — exposing you just there. How his teeth sink in and you laugh, deep and throaty and sink your nails into his shoulders. How you can feel Ricardo smile, just there, against the curve.

Manhandled into turning around, and later you might say something aside, but you like the way he grunts, whispers your name. You like his hands, rough and scarred and the feel of metal along your thighs, as they slide between your legs. First touch, and something leaves you, maybe a chuckle, maybe a giggle, head falling back against his shoulder. Turn in to kiss, more holding him, right there.

Right there, as Ricardo draws tight circles around your clit. You would never accuse him of cheating, but there might be a touch of a buzz, and you do moan. Loudly, unapologetically. At the feel of a hand pushing up under the hoodie, gripping your breast. Ricardo rocks his hips against you, _Logan_ , hard and heedy and flattering. Tomorrow.

Not now. When you lean forward, hands against the sink. Watch over your shoulder, as he barely gets the shorts low enough. Chases your underwear down with his hands, licking stripes up the back of your legs when he straightens. A kiss, right there, back of your knee. The bad one. The good one.

A teasing bite against the swell of your ass.

And tomorrow you’ll worry about cleaning. When Ricardo sinks into you, there’s that soft, silent, _oh_. Takes over his face, and tomorrow you’ll laugh about other lovers. Tomorrow, you’ll massage your hip, as you get your knee up, on the porcelain, another angle. Hand flat against the mirror. Watching him watching you.

That grin on both your faces will matter tomorrow. Like how Ricardo says he loves you, and you say it, too. When it’s not two in the morning, and you won’t have bruises flush on your skin and he fills you, fucks you. Keeps his fingers tight and curled and undoes you, so tenderly, so lovingly, with the way he whispers into your nape.

You’ll have an odd shape mark on your knee, but the mirror fogs, and you stand on the tips of your toes, holding on. Eyes squeezed shut, as you laugh and laugh and oh, god, tomorrow you’ll care.


	128. Chapter 128

And he says,

 _Not like this_.

Words that are dragged up from the pit. Tired and worn and punctured by lines that are harder now, cut along his cheeks and jaw. No longer softened by pockets of fat, that gave way to the idealistic and lighthearted. But you have always known, there was something underneath.

Something that ate and ate and ate. Seven years of guilt? Or was it more. More more more. Devouring him from the inside out, until his voice scratched and the tears rolled and he begs, please, oh god, _not like this._

But you are smiling. Reflection in a helmet, bright and bloody and bruised. Broken nose, cracked tooth, new scars. Just you. Like you had always been. Always wanted to be. You’ll make it through this. You will make it through the rest.

If only because you are no longer armoured, you are just. Fingers, tugging at his hair. Watching him cry over you. Are you laughing? There are sounds, but it’s is more like metal drawing over metal. Clawing its way out of you, hiding your breaths under the sound. High pitched whine, left ear.

It was always going to be like this. Maybe he knows. Maybe he regrets. Maybe you could find yourself, in the familiar curves of his face, those dark eyes. Seeing something you never understood, and Ricardo presses his forehead against yours. As he sobs. As he begs.

Ah, you can only think. If only you had known, all along. Because your hand goes limp, and your breathing stops, and you are sunk into darkness and freedom. And the hard reset of lights.


	129. Chapter 129

You don’t know what you did to earn his trust.

Because these hands hold your future. And they are weighted, by choices and lives that the both of you have led, that you may never understand. But now they are curled around your fingers, gentle in the way they trace fine lines over your knuckles. Reliving a memory for you, of windows and fear. Of finding that place.

So you. Fall. Always falling. Find the curve of his shoulder, and bury your face in soft cotton and softer skin. There are no words here, because they have all been said. Are spoken, in how Chen holds you. Maybe he should not keep you so close, so much so that there is a beat, and it rolls in sync, and you may convince yourself of other things and other words.

Tension holds you there. No it doesn’t. Yes it does. Slowly broken, in how you finally, _finally_ , find the front of his shirt. His sides. Return the embrace. One day, you’ll stop the fall. But now you are locked in and held and you don’t want to fight. You don’t want to leave.

There is a thought,

that maybe,

you want to stay,

far from earth, somewhere down here. Where he says your name, and you say his, and the world is tilted and coloured grey, but the beat warms you. Holds you. Keeps you.


	130. Chapter 130

How could you ever

love someone

like,

 _me_.

And the words fracture. Spoken softly, under breath, while the movie plays. And yet you hear them. Were you meant to? A part of you, it breaks and splinters and begs, oh no, I can’t, not yet, not like this. Because it is afraid and it is loud and you want to be soft and gentle.

Melded into pinks and flowers and the way her hair drapes over her shoulders. You want to be.

To pass this off, for how she always whispers the lines. How her eyes trace over figures unknown, but in that moment, they are held so dear. Like for one whole moment, they speak to her. One whole moment, Argent whispers back, and finds solace in those places, of dusty deserts and cold apartments and the warmth of bakeries, where it snows outside but the terrace is always free.

You want to be. Better. Softer. Gentle. You are at a loss of your own harshness, in the face of how she leans against you, licking icing from her fingers, too distracted. Her mind is relaxed, but you are afraid. Not it. You. You you you.

How could _you_ ever love someone like me.

Sinks its fingers into your brain, and holds you prisoner. Makes you tense and breathe and you have to. Wish. Pull at the fabric, hold it between your fingers, and think of pinks and silver and how she does not pull away. How Argent does cast a thought to you. To love. To the river deep and the embrace on screen.

That there is a fleeting moment, of maybe’s and could we’s. Pillowed by sweet nothings and the way you. Close your eyes. Forget to breathe.


	131. Chapter 131

Flex your fingers. Count to three. Lean into the embrace of friends and you stretch your mind then. Picking up little flags, as the car hits a pothole and lurches. Enough to have a jolt, that was nerves and feelings bundled up into the way you sigh, earning you a: “sorry, Boss.”

You don’t respond. Never made a habit of it before. Just count again and continue, waiting for the signs. Don’t hold too closely onto the ones that tempt you, because you are a sneeze, burning the tongue on coffee, whisper in the ear. Thought about and gone.

Except the sounds that reach you are not from the mind. Screech of tires that swing out, and someone swears. It might’ve even been you, might’ve been Nehal. Hand still holding onto the rail, you pull yourself up. Let the light fill your helmet, and Pelayo meets your eye.

“We’re compromised. I’ll take the bike.”

“Boss, I don’t think—”

“Nehal, take a hard left.” And the car doesn’t hesitate, with the others following behind far too close. “Ward and ZaZa, on the guns. Mortum’s new toys should be working.”

Over the comms, you hear an agreement from ZaZa, a swear from Bo. Even Rosie chimes in with disagreement, but you don’t listen. Never were good at taking advice. Just let the mask hide your face once more, and swing a leg over the bike. “No heroics. Get back to base.”

Pelayo doesn’t argue, but you watch him hit the button. How the doors open, and you offer a salute. Hit the gas, and the bike roars, letting you swerve, gain balance. Pull the gun out your back. In your hand. Familiar and you don’t remember breathing, but you’re smiling. Racing forward, and.

Tilt. Bullet, fire, hit the tires. Watch one of the cars careen out of the way. Hard push on your leg that you can feel through the material, upright once more. Do you lick your lips, as you watch men lean out the windows now? As you raise yourself, and leap forward, jump jets carrying you?

To slam your fists down, as bullets rain behind you. Another car that goes, as you punch. And punch. And punch. Twist your wrist and pull the screen free. Maybe one of the men too, out of the way. A scream resounds, a little too close to your ears, but you’ve pulled the steering wheel now.

Thrown it over your shoulder, even. Kick your heels and raise yourself up, as the car veers and swerves and flips. Takes out another and it’s cinematic in motion. Camera in your visor hyper-focusing, catching all the details. Jumping one, two, three. Licence plates, makes, mooks. Compiled and filed away.

Roll your shoulders, miss the initial punch. Three quick jabs, and your would-be attacker is down and out for the count. Curl your fingers in his hair, pull him up and out. Symbol, left side of neck. New tattoo, new body for the masses. Pity.

But you let him fall, even if there is one last kick to his head. Silence on all fronts now. Good. Tap the headset, once, twice, “Did you get away?”

“Rendezvous point. Took some damage to the vehicles but we’re safe.” Pelayo sounded swollen, and you could’ve hopped and jumped and seen the damage in minutes, had it not been for the faces peering out now. Cameras and phones, pointed, on.

Oh, there was the bike. Scratched, and a little worse for wear, but as you heave it up, fire the engine, it growls to life. “Good. See you soon.”

Weaving in between people is easy when you control the crowds. When you find the fear and the awe and pinch it, spread it. Mouths fall open and cameras flash and you hit the accelerator, front wheel raised. Take the corners hard and fast and the ground comes at you too close. Didn’t matter, anyway, when you see an LDPD car, because you’re up and over and gone.

Last look back, before you get lost in the thick of it. Ranger blue hard and dressed. They never see your smile.


	132. Chapter 132

Perhaps you shouldn’t have pulled your elbow so far back, because they get a solid one, two, in. Catch you in the ribs and make you stumble. For show? You weren’t too sure, because it hurt far too much and the wheeze that leaves you would be embarrassing tomorrow.

But you deflect, left raise, only to have it smacked back. Another catch to your cheek, two more steps. Losing far too much ground, far too quickly. Blink, but you can’t remember the layout of the room. Blink again. Once more.

And maybe they just got too cocky. Maybe you were getting soft. Hands manage to grab you, your shirt, pulling you forward. Pulling you in. Three distinct scenarios played out in your mind.

One of them was not someone trying to headbutt you. Let alone do it incorrectly. As it was not you who groaned in pain, only some mild discomfort. Missed your nose. Aimed too high. Drop you, bounce on your toes, watch how they hold their head. Skin not broken, but the pain fills your ears and mind.

“Metal, babe.” Tap the side of your head. Roll your shoulders and raise your hands. “My turn.”


	133. Chapter 133

eyes off for half a second and you are gone, _gone_. looking back for help, please, don’t let it end like this. where your hands can’t quite touch and place and you slip. on. something. something you don’t want to think about or consider.

slip and fall and oh, god, oh please, i’m so sorry. oh no. no no _no_. this was not supposed to be how it was. fingers find the keyboard, and the only sounds you hear is blood, screaming through your ears. or was that just simply you, scalpel twisted now, hand that grips your cheek. watch as the monster leans in closer, closer,

so your breath fogs the mask. so you see the words, I AM ALIVE, flash in front of your eyes. last thing you will ever see, you know, and you regret and hate and beg. beg in ways you remembered she had, once, and retribution is divine and painful.

divine and beautiful, and silver, raised to the corner of your eye. cannot squeeze them shut, with how she holds you open. tender in ways you were not.

“now, now, evan. this won’t hurt a bit.”


	134. Chapter 134

It hasn’t quite clocked over to four, but your eyes are heavy. Rub the corners, smudge the liner. Tomorrow you’ll clean it up and complain and worry about the mark lingering on your finger, but now. Hands caught, pulled away. The same sleepy smile mirrored, reflected and doubled.

Muted, by the sheets pulled up around your heads. Keeping you hidden away from the worries of the world, one whole moment.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask, as he kisses your knuckles, one at a time. All the way from left to right. Same pattern, different year, like nothing had come between.

And there’s a look, that lingers in the pinch of his eyebrow, as he. Chuckles. Lets go. Hands resting gently between, barely touching. Parts his lips, wets the skin, and there’s that smile you remember. That you,

“I have a kind of crazy request.”

Hushed words, cause for moving closer, leaning in. “Can’t be crazier than being in bed with a—”

“Will you marry me?”

Careful, practiced. Precise. Might’ve interrupted you, but Ricardo does not rush through them. A smile that instead suggests that this had been a long time coming, and. Did you know? Fingers find your shoulders, slide down your back. Rest in the middle, keeping you there in a way you knew you could break from.

But you say, “that’s crazy.” “Why.” “What.” No questions, just statements, that flit through and are whispered and it’s too warm. Cheeks flushed and skin burning for where he touched. “You’re crazy.”

“Crazy… for you?” The smile is cheeky, as you groan, push away. Throw back the covers and expose the both of you to the rest of the reality. Sun peeking in under the curtains and a colder press of air.

“We’re not the marrying types.”

Ricardo raises himself up, hovering over you. An expression that’s too gentle and honest and open. As you rationalise and hold out your hands and swallow the lump that had formed. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Isn’t this an occupational hazard? Aren’t there rules in place?”

A fight in you that you didn’t want, but needed. Keep the lines in place, seven year old habits that never died. Establish the rules, the necessities, and you will return to sitting on the railing in the park, tracing the little heart around your initials.

Bury it.

“I’m not the Marshal anymore.”

“I stopped being Sidestep a long time ago.”

Both admissions are soft and sorry. Clamouring over each other. Because the words are said and never really heard. You know this. You know this so damn well. Ricardo never really lost that little slip of rank for you, and it took this moment — _this_ one, right here — to realise. For the world to click a little more into place.

When had you stopped seeing him as just that. _Marshal Charge._ The two of you chasing after each other when backs were turned. There was no moment, when you were able to strip the people apart. Put them back together.

To figure out all the little puzzle pieces. And his words take the wind right out of you, a _whoosh_ when you admit. Admit that deep down. Ricardo was honest. That this wasn’t another jumping of the gun, that landed you in hiding chasing the Void. Or the kind that had you buried under debris, post Psychopathor. Or better yet, throwing caution to the wind, mid your own villainous rampage. Terror of the streets.

Mouth dry, no words. Pressure at the corner of your eyes, one you want to fight against, because that was all you had ever known. Hardwired deep into your code, stamped across your skin. Ricardo makes you want to fight, so you.

Kiss him. Kiss him like a sun exploding, technicolour true. Where you can taste the pinks and the oranges and you whisper, _yes_.


End file.
